Those damn Muscovy Ducks!

 

Thinking back to Nickerson is impossible without remembering the stinking ducks.  Let me lay the scene out for you.  We had a sink in the kitchen and a hand pump to pump water for indoor use.  The drain consisted of a pipe that ran through the wall and extended about 10 feet into the back yard.  Beyond that was the rabbit hutches and further out the chicken house and yard.  The chicken yard was fenced and they had a very nice house.  Horse pen and barn were over to the left.  Ah, but the only thing not restrained were the Muscovy ducks.

As I recall, there were 4 of them.  Black and white.  Now a Muscovy duck is different than other ducks.  The Muscovy is a "warbler"  which means it sounds like an old man mumbling to himself.  As a general rule ducks are pretty quite and when they do talk it is a definite "quack".  I am pretty sure that the male ducks I had never uttered a sound and the females were quite vocal.

Another interesting point here is that domesticated ducks and geese do not fly.  The exception to that rule is the Muscovy, which can fly and I know this for a fact because at one point I had 38 ducks, 4 of which were Muscovy.  All the ducks liked to float around in the pond, but the Muscovy ducks liked to fly up to the house and set on my central air unit which was located (and still is) near my back door.  It became a regular chore to hose down the unit when they went back to the pond.

But back to Nickerson and the sink draining in the back yard.  It was the habit of the Muscovy ducks to root around in the mudhole that was created by the water draining onto the dirt in the back yard.  I am pretty sure that mosquitoes laid eggs in that water.  I do know when the ducks got through digging in the wet dirt that it was a very stinky mess.  Hindsight tells me that if the health department had ever seen that mess that they would have bulldozed the house, but that was then and this is now and there is not much anyone can do about that, is there?

Looking back down the years of growing up on Tobacco Road, it is a miracle that any of us survived, and yet here I am!  We all have scars that we got when we were wee tykes and I can now empathize with my mother.  My hat is off to that woman if only for the fact that she raised us all to adulthood without any loss of life.  There were 6 of us back then.  Now we are down to only two.  Donna lives in Hutchinson and I live in Pueblo.  

We gathered only for funerals, but now there are just the two of us, so that does not happen very often.  She actually thinks she is my big sister, so I just let her think that.  I do know that we remember our childhoods differently.  I see abject poverty and she recalls a very happy childhood.  She remembers a very kind father and I never met that man! 

The one thing mother did teach me was that we all have our own concept of reality.  Some of us see the glass half empty and some of us see it half full.  

I do not even remember having a glass!

We meet everyone for a reason.

1. They are sent to awaken us.

2.  They are sent to hold space for us.

3.  They are sent to help us grow.

4.  They are sent to remind us.

5.  They are sent to stay, holding a long term role in our lives.

I found this on an old yellow index card when I was cleaning the mess on top of my desk this past week.  It is in my handwriting, so I know I copied it from some place and at a time when I probably needed to know this stuff.  And I also know, that at this time and place I needed to find it and be reminded of just where my friends came from and why they are still here.

I look at this list and I look back at my life and I realize that everyone of these sentences are true.  Now, granted, some of my dearest friends are not in my life in an active way, but that may be because they served their purpose and moved on.  Some of them are in my darkest past and I no longer have contact with them, but they do pop into my memory from time to time. 

And as I look back on my most troubling times in my long ago past, there were no friends.  It was during those times that I escaped into my childhood.  In my childhood I was safe from the present I was living.   It was my childhood that gave me the strength to move forward and gave me the courage to "accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."  I think that all this shows up in the Serenity Prayer in some form.  That prayer, while used by the AA groups, is a good one for all of us to follow. 

I look back down the twisted, littered road of my past and I have to acknowledge that during most of that time, there were no flesh and blood friends, but there was always God and the certainty that he was holding me up.  And it was just as if I was held by the blacksmith as he held me over the roaring forge.  He melded me and formed me into the woman I am today.  

Mother taught me that "as you sow, so shall you reap."  And "sow the wind and reap the whirlwind."  And another important one was, "To have a friend, you need to be a friend."  When I moved from Western Kansas back to Hutchinson, I had 4 kids walking and one in the oven waiting.  While that time was very hard to live through, I came out the other side stronger and did actually forge some friendships that I continue to this day.  

When I found this tattered, yellow index card on my desk, it suddenly took me back to those times!  And I began to reflect back on my life and friendships I have formed.  I am truly a blessed woman!  I can not count my true friends on one hand, but that is because there are so many.  I have received so much love from people that I rarely even think about that I am humbled.  How this skinny little girl from Strong Street can be so esteemed is more that I can fathom!

Just know this;  I could not have survived here in Pueblo, Colorado, without your help.  And I certainly felt all of the love these last couple of months.  (Has it only been 2 months?  It seems like an eternity!)  So, I am going to take this tattered, yellow index card and put it in a frame and put it up there on that shelf above the monitor where I can see it every day.  

I may not be able to categorize all my friends, but know that I love everyone of you.  You have all touched my world in some way.  I am a firm believer that if you let me cross your mind that you have sent me good vibes.  It is those things that make me want to get out of bed in the morning and keep putting one foot in front of the other.  It is all of you  who make me who I am and what I am today.

Peace, my friends!

Two things no one should ever eat.

 The first is a Gooseberry!  My mother-in-law, Leone Mercer had a Gooseberry patch in her back yard on Heisler Street.  When Bret and Shelly were wee little tykes I took them over there and they wandered out back and found the Gooseberry patch.  When I happened upon them they were actually eating them.  I had never encountered a Gooseberry, so I picked one and popped it in my mouth. OMG!  Those things were beyond sour.  I could feel the bottom of my brain stem rebelling!  Leone assured me that "made into a pie it is the best thing you will ever eat."  Some how, deep in my soul, I rather doubted that.

Regress back to 709 North Strong Street in Nickerson and an eight year old version of myself exploring my new home.  We had moved there from the Ailmore place and since dad was buying this house we were now homeowners.  Facing the house from the street on my right (which I learned later was the North side of the house) was a Walking Stick Cactus which would be a source of much pain.  Going on to the back fence was a row of elm trees, followed by a Mulberry Tree, more elm trees, and then a long row of Currant bushes.  Mother assured us that they were good to eat when they were ripe.

I spent many hours climbing the Mulberry tree and searching for a ripe one to eat because Mulberry is a very good treat as long as they are ripe.  The ones on the top ripen first and it is just a few days until the ones on top began to fall to the ground.  Now Mulberries are a deep purple when ripe and since we went barefooted all summer, my feet were also purple on the bottom.  If that was not enough to deter me, the news that Mother told Dad did give me pause.

"Ruben, those Mulberry have worms in them.  You have got to keep the kids out of them."  Well, I could not see the worms, so I just figured she was seeing things and continued my feast.  The mere fact that I am still here seventy years later makes me think she was either wrong, or they were damn little worms and did not hurt anything!

Ah, but the currants!  The currant bushes were in a row and the row was probably forty feet long.  Early in the spring little yellow flowers covered the bushes and we soon learned that little green berries about  a quarter inch in diameter would appear.  Of course I never was the patient type, so I picked one and ate it.  I guess I should say, I attempted to eat it!  My God those things were bitter!  I think I have a permanent pucker from those things.  The sad part is that as they ripened a little they got less bitter and as soon as they got fat and ripe, the birds swept in and harvested them!  As I recall, they were rather opaque when they were almost ready and then turned black when fully ripe, right before the Sparrows came in and ate them all!

There was a Peach tree that hung over the chicken house and I never was fast enough to get one of those either!  I did get one that was almost thinking about maybe getting ripe.  It was hard and not sweet at all and mother was right, it did give me a belly ache.  

And the Catalpa tree had beautiful white flowers and when the flowers dried up, a long bean came on and hung down.  Jake and I figured out that if we let the bean dry, we could light it up and smoke it.  Sadly I did not blow out the fire on the end of it when I took my big drag and sucked the burning fire into my mouth!  

I often wonder how I survived to adulthood!  But I did.  And the saddest part of all of this is that I look back on my childhood days as happy ones!  My idea of heaven is to go back to that little 2 bedroom shack on Strong Street, shinny up the Catalpa tree, watch a chicken lay an egg, and fly my kite over the cemetery with my brother.

Life was sure simple back then.

Kansas Naval Air Station

 KNAS.  So, I am a little fussy on the years here, but I think it was back in the late 1950's that Hutchinson had the Kansas Naval Air Station located South of Hutch.  I was in High School and my graduation year was 1959, or at least that is what my class ring said.  Sadly, I knew all I needed to know by the middle of my Senior year and I dropped out.  I attended my Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior  year at Nickerson High School, go Wildcats!  Might not have been wildcats, but my memory says it was.

Now you may ask how this has anything to do with the Navy, but if you are patient, I will get there.  Now what was housed at the Naval Air Station?  Sailors!!  Now you must remember that at that juncture of my life I was a nubile teenage girl who had not sampled the forbidden pleasures of life and love.  Ah, but I had dreams!  And I had dreams because I had finally developed what appeared to be a bosom and I had heard the other girls talking.  I was not quite sure exactly what "Married Love" was, but I was pretty sure I wanted to be a beloved wife some day and that some man would sweep me off my feet and take me to paradise where I would live happily ever after.  

In the meantime, the sailors who were stationed at KNAS liked to come to our little town and cruise Main Street during our school lunch hour and try to pick up girls.  I was scared to death of men, but I gotta tell you those boys/men in those tight, white navy pants with two rows of dark navy blue buttons touched me and warmed the cockels of my heart!  The neighbor girls, Delores and Irene, were allowed to date, so they did.  Delores ended up marrying one named Smitty and moving back east some where.  Irene dated some guy and fell madly in love until he was "shipped out"  and she was left crying in the dust.

But the stage for my life was set by those boys in their white uniforms.  Army khaki and Air Force Blue meant nothing compared to Navy white.  Winter was Navy blue wool and the wool looked pretty itchy to me, so Spring and Fall we were good to go and my heart came to life, but Winter was verboten, which is kin to mauch's nix.

But my minds eye can still see the coupes, which were their chosen vehicle, and the sailors with their white hats cocked just so, cruising Main and hear the cat calls emitting from the vehicles.  Of course all the girls tee-heed and me right along with them. Sadly, I knew the sailors were off limits and if I was ready to start dating, I better hope that the one I picked was the geek with the glasses in my History  class.  And sadder yet, he was my cousin!  Since the Beck family had been the precursors to the Haas migration from Germany, most everyone was my cousin.  In order to carry on the family line and for Mother to make a decent wage, we had to move to Hutchinson for my Senior year.

That was also about the time that the Kansas Naval Air Station south of Hutchinson closed and the base was deserted.  A couple years later I married a guy who had just gotten out of the Army and returned from Germany.  Boy was that an exercise in futility.  The floors were wood and they had to be paste wax coated which meant I had to rent a buffer every time I cleaned the floor.  His Kahki pants had to be starched and the crease sharp and exact!  Of course the fact that he was just going to get drunk and spill stuff on them was entirely beside the point.  Oh, and the allegiance I held for the Navy must be replaced by the Army.  Charlie and Kenneth were both Marines. But guess what!  I finally got my sailor!

Anthony was in the Navy on board the USS Proteus, a sub-tender.  The motto was Prepared, Productive, Precise.  And he reflected that later in life as well.  He was stationed in Hawaii.  He was in Pearl Harbor, but it was after the bombing.  Of course that was many years before I met him.  There is a lot to be said for the twilight years, but right now it slips my mind that anything I come up with would be worth repeating.

I saw his white bell bottom pants.  Of course they did not fit him any more, but I did get to touch them and for a while I was back on the streets of Nickerson and the sailor boys were "cruising  Main".  I was still 17 years old with dreams of being a missionary.  I still could not look a man in the eye, but I could envision him with dark hair and soft brown eyes dressed in his Summer Whites.  I can hold my little sailor boy in my minds eye, but more importantly, in my heart.

And at this point in life, memories and dreams is about all we have, isn't it?

Momma and the elusive hummingbird.

When I moved to Colorado from Kansas way back in the early 1970's, I left my dear momma behind.  Well, to be honest, I left a lot of things behind, the least of which was a string of broken hearts and many friends.  Momma had the key to the house and the restaurant and I had a husband and a 1967 Chevy.  But I also had hopes and dreams. The husband did not last long and he took the Chevy when we parted ways.  The hopes and dreams would never die.  

To make a long story short, I touched lightly on husband #4 and  then moved on to a single life.  Life was good.  I had friends and I had to work 2 jobs to survive.  My momma back home missed me and I missed home.  So once a year I would travel back and in the spring or she would ride the train to  La Junta.  I would pick her up and bring her the last 50 miles.  Once she traveled with a lady we both knew.  That was not a good idea!  

My momma loved the hummingbirds that live in Colorado, but not in Kansas, or at least I never seen them down in Hutchinson which is very hot and muggy.  It soon became her quest to see as many of them as she could.  I loaded her into the car and we drove to Beulah.  It rained and the hummingbirds stayed hidden in the trees.

By this time I had married Kenny and we lived on the mesa.  Momma really liked that. I had a feeder hanging in front of the big window in the front room and I could spot the little fellows all day, but dear momma was not so lucky.  She liked to set in my rocker in front of the window and work crossword puzzles while she waited for the tiny birds to appear.  My office has always been on the upper level and I have a clear view of the window, so I was the look out.

A bird would come to the feeder and I would call out to her, but by the time she finished writing the word in the puzzle, the little feathered creature had flown away.  Then she would set staring at the empty perch waiting for the colorful little bird to come back.  After a few minutes of staring out the window at nothing, she would go back to her puzzle and wait till I spotted another one and we would repeat the whole scenario.

We set in the front yard under the Ash tree and waited.  Of course as we waited we talked and the birds did not like that so they stayed away.  Her trips were always planned around the start of summer before it got to hot for the little hummers.  We did travel to Beulah a time or two and parked to watch for them, but by this time her eye sight was not as clear as it used to be.  I did get a picture of two hummingbirds and mounted it for her, but that was never the same.

As momma got older we worried about her riding the train alone, so someone would bring her to me.  At this point of her life she was now into my cooking more so then the hummingbirds.  When she arrived, she would get out of the car and in her hand she had a list of food she wanted me to prepare.  

"They feed me that crap out of cans and I do not like it."  She would hand me her list and my work was cut out for me.  It read like this:

1.  Tomato soup.  Not canned tomato soup.  The kind you make with tomatoes where you mash and boil them and put soda to take out the acid.  And made with milk!  Not water.  And I like a grilled cheese sandwich with that.

2.  Liver and Onions.  Calf liver that is floured and browned in the skillet.  Saute the onions and then put the lid on with a little water and turn it on low and let it steam.

3.  Cinnamon Rolls.  Made with yeast and flour and let the dough raise then roll it out and lots of brown sugar and cinnamon.  And let them raise.  Not out of a can!

4.  Chicken and Noodles.  Boil the chicken and make good broth.  Homemade noodles made with egg and flour and cut on the counter.  Not those slick things that come in a cellophane bag.

There were other things she liked me to fix, but those were the staples that she had traveled 400 miles and all day to eat and by the gods above I better not screw up those four things!  And light on the salt!  High blood pressure.  "You can always put salt in, but you can not take salt out, so take it easy with that salt shaker."

Yes, momma! My sisters swore the frozen stuff or the canned stuff was as good or better than homemade, but momma wasn't buying that crock!

I miss my momma and that is a fact.  I used to have a big family, but sadly I am down to only one sister.  When momma was alive I always went home, but now it just isn't worth the effort.  Course I am not a spring chicken any more.  I like to go see my kids, but this past year, I have not done so.  The pandemic, you know.  I miss that.  I miss momma.

I often wonder if I will ever get old enough to not miss her.  Probably not.  I think my kids still miss me, but I am wondering if I showed up on their doorstep with my menu in my pocket, what the reception would be!  First thing is that since there are no hummingbirds in Kansas, I would have to watch the crows.  As I recall those damn things were as big as chickens.

So I guess I will just set here and miss momma and wish I was young again and she was planning a visit.  We have to love them while we have them, because that is how life is designed.  And I wonder, if I had it to do all over again if I would do it different.  I kind of doubt it, because momma had a saying for every occasion and another of her favorites was, "Try getting that toothpaste back in the tube."

So there you have it!  RIP my mother, you are sorely missed!

A trip to a dark place in my past.

 It has been over 65 years since I thought of Jimmie.  He holds no significance in my life except that he was there for a brief period.  I was 17 years  old and ready for my life to begin.  I was ready for love and love seemed to be everywhere.  The years of the 16 and 17 year old Louella were all about exploration, and mostly dancing and finding someone to call my own.  Some one who would love me forever.  The boys were plentiful back then and they were just as innocent and just as eager as the girls.  Sex had not yet reared it's head on our horizon.  Oh there was the occasional stolen kiss and the fumbled attempts at "copping a feel", but that was as far as it went.  Most of the dates were "double dates", because very few of the boys had access to a car back then.

And then came Jimmie.  Jimmie was older.  Jimmie had been in the Army.  Jimmie had a car.  He was the cool boy who stood on the sidelines with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth.  It was rumored that he had a wife and son back in England.  That just added to the mystic of Jimmie.  Sadly it very soon became common knowledge that Jimmie was the love 'em and leave 'em kind.  Pretty little teenagers following him with their red eyes soon became a common sight at the record hop.  And then he looked my way!  

He took me to his house to meet his mom and sister.  He showed me a picture of his wife and son.  Looking back in retrospect, I am not sure it was anything but a picture from a magazine, but it added to the legend that was Jimmie.  He did not appear old enough to have spent a lot of time in the Army, but he said it so that made it so.  I, of course, was holding my sexual favors back in hopes of a wedding ring.  I sure did not want to be one of the sad little creatures watching him from afar.  He soon tired of me.  And as time would tell, God above smiled on me the day he broke my heart.  I had given him a picture to put on the dash of his car and he threw it out the window explaining to me that I was too immature for him.

Jimmie quit coming to the dances.  No one seen him, but we heard through the grapevine that he was working out of town and he gradually faded from our memories we all moved on.

When I married and moved out of town and began my own family, mother kept me up on all the gossip.  She sent newspaper clippings  of happenings that involved the circle of friends that she knew I hung out with.  One day there was a clipping about a nurse who lived in a trailer outside of town with her husband and two small children.  Someone had come to her trailer while her husband was at work and killed her two children and thrown them into the field.  He then raped her.  He did not kill her.  They had a lead as to his identity.  It was Jimmie.

I am sure people back home remember the headlines.  I do not remember all the details of the trial, but he was definitely the same Jimmie I knew and he was definitely guilty.  I could google it and find out, but I do not care.  I only know how lucky my friends and I were that we had all dated him and we were all alright.  This just goes to show that mother was right about another thing.  She always said "You never know anyone, you only know OF  them.  You know what they let you see."

That happened 65 years ago and I read about it at some point in time, but God in his wisdom left me untouched.  Not just me, but many of my friends.  This is something I have not thought about for many, many years, but today I thank God for bringing me through a lot of valleys to this wonderful life I now live in Pueblo. Colorado!

Brings me to this song which pretty much says it all.  Unanswered Prayers

I guess God don't want me!

 For the last 25 or 30 years I have been in church every Sunday morning.  For many years I went to the Christ Congregational Church in Belmont until the politics of that church and the powers that controlled the church no longer meshed with my beliefs.  When I left there I went across town to the historic First Congregational Church on Evans.  The one in Belmont had been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and was progressive while the one on Evans was built in 1868 with red sandstone from Beulah.  It is on the national register so it is very historic as is the organ that pumped out music every Sunday.  Ken Joyal plays it and is accompanied by Becky on the piano and Karen and Jerome playing violins.  I was very happy there and never missed a Sunday.  

But, alas, those days are behind me!  In March our church closed the doors to let the pandemic work it's way out.  They closed for just a month or so.  Let me see; March, April, May, June, July, August.....and holding.  Sadly, the church has not opened.  They broadcast a service once a week and hold "virtual communion" and "zoom" meetings, but that does not cut it for me!

I want to set in the pew.  I want to hold the hymnal in my hand.  I want to sing with other people doing the same thing, but it is not happening.  So here is the deal; I am searching for a church.....

And here is what I want.  I want a preacher in the pulpit who will give me a sermon about love, compassion, good deeds and a God that will welcome me, a sinner, into his heaven.  I want a congregation that will welcome me and validate my worth.  In return, I will be there every Sunday.  I will tithe, just like the Bible says to do. 

I want a smaller church.  I am not into mega churches.  I want a liberal church that is open and affirming of all races, and gay friendly.  I do not want to be judged and I will not judge you.  Maybe we can have coffee after, maybe not.  I want to support the homeless.  I guess I am looking for a church the Jesus would go to in his tattered robe and slippers.

If you attend a church you think I would like and you would accept me, contact me through this blog down at the bottom.  

I would love to hear from you! 

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 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!

Willie, Woolsworth, and the Blue Waltz Perfume.

Probably, the second "real love" of my life after Corky, the dancing fool, was a guy named Willie.  Back in those days, newspapers required a "typesetter" and that was what Willie did.  It did not require much expertise, but I was just as proud of him as if I had good sense.  Work was a necessary evil back in those days.  No work, no pay, no money for beer and beer was very important back then.

Willie was not a handsome man.  He was not tall.  He was not overly bright, but he loved me, so I of course loved him.  He was a short, stocky little bundle of muscles who was feared by all.  His reddish hair gave him a temper, or so they said.  Seems he liked to fight and when someone likes to do something they are usually very good at it.  It was rumored that he might be a little off in the head, but who cared?  Not me, that was for sure. 

Willie and I never had an actual physical relationship, but I loved him anyway.  In Hutchinson, back in the day, it was expected that anyone with a car would be dragging Main on Friday and Saturday night.  That was what you did.  You started on Sherman and Main and drove North to 30th, circled back to Sherman.  Bumper to bumper.  If you were cool, you parked and laid on the hood of your vehicle and watched.  Not sure being cool had as much to do with it as just not having anything else to do.

Willie did not have a car, but his friend Jimmie did.  Jimmie also had a wife waiting at home and a couple kids, but that was cool.  Jimmie was a family man and would have to leave us early.  We then walked home.  Since I lived on West A  Jimmie would drop us there, and Willie would then walk to his house which was on the East end of Sherman.

Back in the day we had 2 stores called "five and dimes."  They were precursors to Family Dollar, Dollar General and stores like that.  Variety stores and you could find about anything you needed within their walls.  The first was Kresses and the other was Woolsworth.  I had asked Willie once what his favorite perfume was and he told me it was "Blue Waltz".  The only place it was sold was at Kress, so the first spare nickle I had, I set off to purchase the elixir that would make Willie mine.

Blue Waltz Perfume came in a little heart shaped bottle that was about an inch and a half tall and a  little over an inch wide. The bottle was clear, but the perfume, as I recall was a very light tan.  It had a fragrance like none other.  It was actually a very light, cloying smell, for want of a better word.   I do not know what that word means, but it sure fit that perfume!  I dabbed it behind my ears, in my hair, and any place else my finger happened to find. 

Now it is only fair to tell you at this point that I do not remember what ever happened between Willie and I all those years ago, but suffice it to say, it could not have been anything too important or I would have remembered.  What I do recall is the Blue Waltz Perfume and I can close my eyes and see that little bottle.  I am sure I bought it for a nickle and only used it when I was seeing Willie and that is all I remember.  It was not long after that I met Duane, and Willie was history.  The Blue Waltz Perfume was not nearly as popular with Duane as it was with Willie so it set on the shelf forgotten. 

I do think about that tiny little bottle from time to time and wonder what ever became of Willie.  I am sure he sobered up and married someone, and maybe had a couple kids.  They would have been cute little burgers with his red hair and blue eyes.  But maybe not.  I had kids of my own and never once thought about naming one of them Willie. 

It is kind of funny how life works.  Willie and the Blue Waltz perfume were a small part of my circle of life, but here I am sixty some years later and the clearest memory of that part of my life is not Willie, or the dragging Main, or anything else.  The undying love was out the window and the vision I see when I close my eyes is that of a tiny glass bottle with the words "Blue Waltz Perfume"  in tiny letters across the front of the bottle.

Funny how that works.

Black Lives Matter. Indian Lives Matter. Hispanic Lives Matter. Where does it end?

I shared a post on facebook.  Poor little ignorant me.  It showed a picture of people; men, women, whites, blacks, Hispanic, all kinds of people.  It said "All lives matter."  It was soon pointed out to me that I was the racist in this occasion.  WHAT?  You have got to be kidding.  How is that racist?  Don't all lives matter?  Apparently not.  So here is my reasoning:

I am white.  I am privileged.  I accept that.  I think my life matters.  I do NOT, however, think my life matters more than yours.  I have white friends.  I also have friends who are not white.  Does one of their lives matter more than another life?  I think not.

I have got to admit, that when someone called me out as using white privilege's I was very hurt.  I could not then, nor can I make the connection now.  I have seen the meme that explains to me in cartoon pictures that the blacks are discriminated against and need our help, as white people, to stand with them in thier struggle.  Got that.  Have had that for a long time.  The same happened with Gays.  Same happened with Vietnamese.  Same happened with equal rights for women.  Same happened with equal pay.  My life has been spent fighting for rights of humans, animals and I even helped sandbag when Midtown was in danger of flooding.  

You know, after all these years, I am ready to throw in the towel.  I realize that right now, at this point in time Blacks have priority, but isn't there a way to stand with the Blacks AND the Indeginous tribes whose lands have been stolen by OUR government and thier women disappearing?  Don't they matter?  Don't the kids locked in cages on our southern border deserve part of our attention?  Or are we so single minded that we can not think about more than one thing at a time?

To me this is the equivalent of having 2 fires on the stove.  Do you just put out the one that is bigger or work on them both at the same time?  Or when an army is engaged in war, do they only fight the enemy they see or do they work on another flank as well?

I am going to say this to whoever wants to listen:  What ever color your skin is, I care about you.  If these means I am exerting my "white privilege"  so be it.  This is all I am going to say about this matter and you can either take me or leave me, and that  my friend is your choice.

Plevna, Kansas, class of 1959

I woke up at 2:30 this morning thinking about my classmates in Plevna, Kansas.  It was my Freshman year and I was living with Grandma Haas and Great Grandma Hatfield.  The high school was on one end of Main Street and Grandma's house was on the other end.  Main Street was 2 blocks long.  The High School, the bank and the filling station was on one side.  On  the other side was Hinshaw's Mercantile, the phone company and Grandma Hatfield's house.  The next house was Grandma Haas's house and then then church.  Great Grandma Hatfield's house was empty since she had moved next door to take care of Grandma Haas.

Great Grandma was a legend in her time.  She was born Helen Gagnebein.  She had married Frank Miller and had 3 children, Lou, Mable, and Grandma Josie.  When he passed she married a man named Hatfield who had a son named Steven.  I always liked Uncle Steven because he had a very round face and always seemed to be happy. Rumor had it that she was headed to the alter with #3 when he suddenly died.  She declared that she had buried 2 husband and the love of her life and was now done.   So she moved across the street to take care of her daughter, my grandmother.  All this has absolutely nothing to do with my Freshman year!

The point is that Grandma had suffered a stroke and could no longer live alone and take care of herself.  Great Grandma needed help and I was the chosen one.  Thus when I left Nickerson Grade School, I was thrown into High School at Plevna, Kansas.  As I recall there were 30 kids in the whole high school.  The Freshman class had like 8 or 9 kids.  When I was laying in bed before I started this missive I could remember 6 of them and clearly see their faces, but as soon as my fingers hit the keys, my brain went south.  I remember Norma Daily, Janet Pastier, the twins Dean and Dale Hinshaw and that is all.  Seems like there were 8 or 9.  I do remember the principal was named Mr. Miller.

They did have a girls basketball team, but I was not allowed to do that because it entailed wearing pants and neither of the grandma's approved of that!  So while the basketball season was on I played ping pong in a room above the stage in the auditorium.  I was not very good at that either.  Everyone brought their lunch except me and I had to run home and check to see if the grandma's needed anything.  Great Grandma would have an orange peeled for me.  When I left the school I could hear Great Grandma's old stand up radio blaring the noon market report.  While we had not farmed for years there were relation who did and the market report kept Great Grandma apprised of the price of wheat, cattle, corn and pork bellies.  I never really gave a shit, but it was important to them!  I would then dash back to school before the bell rang.

Now the most thriving business was the Hinshaw Mercantile.  Dean and Dale would some day fall heir to that!  They were twins, but you would never have guessed it.  Dale was the one who must have gotten to the table first because he was a pudgy, red hair and freckles, pale skinned, mean spirited creature (for want of a better description) fellow.  He never had a nice thing to say to anyone and I sincerely hope he grew out of that!  Dean was a skinny, tanned, dark haired little fellow with a very beautiful smile.  They were as different as night and day.  Needless to say, I thought often about how maybe someday, Dean might hold my hand.  (It never happened.)

The grandma's were united in their way of raising me. The only reading material allowed in the house was the Holy Bible.  No newspaper, no magazine except for the Workbasket which was a crochet magazine that was treasured beyond all else.  I was taught to crochet and that was my past time.  My Grandma Haas and her sister Mabel married brothers.  Aunt Mable would come for a visit from Coldwater, Kansas with her husband  Uncle Goll.  Once she brought her textile paints with the intent of teaching me how to do something besides crochet.  We went to the Hinshaw store and she bought me a white bath towel to paint a design on.  Sadly it was shop worn and the brown outline of where it had lain never faded, but I did paint a water lily on it and she made me feel like I was 10 feet tall.  Damn!  How I miss those days!  I gave the towel to my mother and you would have thought I had handed her the moon!  Things like that used to matter.

If I live to be 200 years old, I will always cherish the memories that were made in that little house there on the end of main street in Plevna, Kansas.  I will always remember the round oak table with the crocheted table cloth and the two grandma's I lived with for a time.  I learned to crochet by the light of a kerosene lamp because, though they had electricity, they did not use it very often because they did not want to wear it out!

I can still see the 2 little white heads bent over their needlework and how occasionally one would look up and smile at me.  They both had the most beautiful blue eyes in the world.  I have often wondered if I really was any help to them or if they were helping me.  I do know, if I were able to go back in time that I would not change one minute of my time spent in that house.  Well, maybe I would.  I would listen next time.  And when we read the Bible (which we did every night)  I would read an extra chapter.  Living with those two women was the best part of my whole entire life.  I just pray that they know what an impact they made on my life all those years ago.

Thank you God for the gift of Grandmothers.

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A Front Row Seat!

I missed the Martin Luther King, Jr march yesterday.  Not sure what I was doing, but pretty sure it was important.  So today I will give you a glimpse into that time in my life.

In 1958, while I was 17 years old, I decided to take a "road trip".  Few people know this and even fewer care, but it was one of the most enlightening things I have ever done and probably did more to shape who I am today then a lot of things I have done.  It goes without saying that since I was 17 years old at the time, I was classified as a "juvenile runaway."  To make a long story short and to get to the heart of this blog, I will just say I ended up in jail in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.  Of course mother sent money for a bus ride home and I was damn glad to take that ride.

Have you ever been in jail?  It is no fun.  I was thrown into a room with a bunch of women who were very kind to me.  They were also, all white.  They talked to me about the error of my ways, and I could not help but agree with them.  All I wanted was to go home.   I quickly learned that there was another cell across the hall where the black women were kept.  Same separation for the men.  This was very strange to me.  When they transported me to the bus station, I learned that the rest rooms for the whites was one place and the ones for the blacks another.  They were very clearly marked "Whites Only" and "Negroes only".  Sadly the sigh did not say "Negroes", but a derogatory term.  Until that time, I had never known there was a differentiation for human beings.  I instinctively did not like it!

You must realize that I grew up in Nickerson, Kansas, and there were only white people there.  I can remember back in my far reaches of my mind talk I overheard about a cross burning outside of town.  I think my father may have taken part in that, because there had been a crowd of men and he seemed to know all about how it went down.  The family moved away right after that.  We moved to Hutchinson several years after that.  It was then that I saw what segregation really was.

Hutchinson, Kansas was divided into North and South with Sherman Street being the dividing line.    Blacks and Hispanics lived south of Sherman: Whites lived north of Sherman.  As the upper class, we were allowed to go to the south end, but they were not allowed north of the line. White people who chose to live South of the line were known as "white trash".  After a night of drinking, Jake and I would venture to South Plum and either eat at Betty's Fried Chicken, or a barbecue place, the name of which slips my mind right now.  We could do that because we were white.  White Privilege's were rampant back then.

The first signs of integration in the public work place happened in Hutchinson at the Landmark Hotel and Restaurant.  I do not remember the year but it seems like it was in the early 1960's.  They hired a black waitress and of course the citizenry were up in arms.  Not only was this woman working in a public place for all the world to see, but she dared to venture north of the Sherman Street line!  Sometimes we would park and just watch her working in there and carrying plates of food to the fine white people.  From our vantage point of the street, she did not appear to be "uppity", but in order to  judge her fairly, we would need to go in and actually order food and have her carry it to us.  But that was back in the day when any spare change was designated for the "beer joints" down on south Main!

  An aside here.  The biggest problem the beer joints on South Main seemed to have was the "Indians" who worked for the railroad.  They wanted to have a beer after work, but they were not allowed to do that because any fool knows "if you get them liquored up, they are going to kill us."  Kansas was pretty lily white back in those days.  White anglo saxon protestants were the chosen people.  Lucky for me!

Sadly, at that point in time drinking was far more important than eating, or standing up for the down trodden who had "chosen to be born black."  And mother corrected me on the use of the word " black".
"They are not black!  They are actually a very beautiful shade of brown."  However "Browns" was reserved for the people who had come up from Mexico.  Now be aware, that there were very few of them in my world!  And I am not sure they had come from Mexico, but we called them "Mexicans".

Now, you must realize here that I was growing up during this period of unrest and both Nickerson and Hutchinson,  Kansas were pretty well isolated from the unrest in the big cities.  By the time I figured out that there was a gulf between the rights of Negroes and Whites, it had diminished to a thin line.  After the election of some one's President (not mine) segregation has once more reared it's ugly head.  The same faction that follows this man refers to Obama as "that effen N#**@7."

So on this day after Marin Luther King, Jr's holiday, I reflect on the past.  For the record, I never participated in any hate marches.  I never called my black brothers and sisters by a derogatory name.  People are people in my world,  They are judged by the content of their hearts, not the color of their skin or which side of Sherman Avenue they lived  many years ago.

To this day I thank my God that I was born colorblind and raised by a mother who judged a man by the content of his soul and not the color of his skin.

"These truths we hold to be self evident, that all men are created equal." (Or something to that affect.)

Today is national hug your neighbor day, here at my house!



 

All I see is a pink ball...

It is Christmas all over the world, and contrary to popular belief it is Christmas at my house.  I do not have a tree and all the trappings.  There is no Christmas music wafting from the stereo.  And last night I missed the service at church for the first time in many, many years.  But it is still Christmas morning here.

Yesterday I went to a friends house for lunch.  I dined with Ross Barnhart and his brothers and most of their wives.  His cousin was also there.  It was lovely and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  Today I am staying home.  I have some things I want to do today, but right now I am thinking back to Strong Street.

I know we lived there for several years, but I am not sure how long.  My favorite Christmas is the year I received a pink ball for Christmas from Santa Clause.  Santa always left our gifts on our chairs at the table.  That year I received a coloring book, a box of 8 Crayola's, 2 chocolate candies an orange and a pink ball.  It was about the size of the orange and it was the most wonderful ball in the world!  When I dropped the ball it bounced very high.  I threw it against the house and it bounced back.  It was so wonderful, but of course , that did not last.  It was just a matter of time before the wonderful pink ball picked up a sticker and no longer bounced.  The last time I recall seeing it was deflated and living in a mud hole.  Soon the coloring book was all colored, the Crayon's broken and missing from the box.

The last Christmas I recall was the last one I want to remember.  Jake told me Santa was not real and he knew that for a fact because Momma was going to let him play Santa and give out the presents that year.  I did not believe him, so I asked him what I was going to get and he told me.

"It is a tin doll house with a mother, father, brother, sister and a dog. A black dog." And that was what I got.  Jake had assembled it by pushing the metal tabs through the slots and folding them down to hold them in place.  And sure enough, there was a pink mother and father, a boy and a girl, and a little dog.  It had a couch and chair, a table and 4 chairs, and a tub and stool and sink in the bathroom.  The kitchen had a sink, refrigerator and a stove.  Jake told me he would get me more stuff someday.  But it never happened.

Some how the wonderfulness of the doll house was over shadowed by the sadness the Santa was not real.  All those years, it had been my momma cleaning other peoples houses and saving money a little at a time to surprise me.  It made me sad to think of her doing without so I could have something I really wanted.  I came to hate that gift more every day.  Momma never knew, but I did.

I hated the poverty that was our life.  I hated that my father did not ever touch me or carry me like he did Mary, Donna and Dorothy.  I told myself that he probably did, when I was little, but I do not remember that.  He spent a lot of time drinking when I was growing up and I attribute it to that.  Sure doesn't help these many years later.

So today, I am staying home, alone.  I am alone because I want to be, not because I have no one.  I have 6 children who have mates and children and some of those children have children which means I am a great grandmother.  I have nieces and nephews.  I have very good friends.  I just want to be alone, so I will.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, and pray that you all enjoy life to the fullest.  I know I am going to do just that!

Peace!

Jake Smith and his grinding wheel.

Now this is a grinding wheel!  It is not the one in Jake Smith's back yard, but it is pretty close.  His had a bicycle seat on the end where the pedals are located.  He used to set there and pedal which caused the stone to rotate.  He would hold an axe blade against the side.  When the first side was sharp, he would turn it over and sharpen the other side. He would finish by dripping water on the blade and the spinning stone.  When he was finished he had a blade that was so sharp it could be used to shave and he tested it by removing a patch of hair from his arm.

Granted he could not make a living by sharpening axe blades, but it did help supplement the income he and his wife received.  She cleaned houses for some ladies in town to help make ends meet.  He was a retired police officer, or so I heard.  He would occasionally "strap his  service weapon" on his belt and scare us kids.  He was quick to tell us how fast we would be dispatched to the other side if we did not get out of his yard.  And to emphasis that he meant business, he would twirl the pistol on one finger.  Then he would set down in the chair that was located by a tree, lean back against the tree and have his afternoon nap.  

One afternoon, Jake and one of his cronies waited until he was sound asleep and then they crept up and carefully encased the old guy in ropes so when he woke up and started to tip his chair back down, it did not tip.  He pulled the ropes over his head, tipped the chair down.  Sadly when he stood up to walk, he found his feet were tied and catapulted to the ground.  He did not find this nearly as funny as us kids hiding over in the weeds behind the shed did!  Damn lucky he did not shoot us that time.  He knew who did it, but of course we all lied and said, "No!  Jake went bike riding and he is not back yet."

Life was so simple back then.  Sorry to say I have not seen one of those wheels in years and the one I saw was in an antique shop and priced far out of my range. Nor do I own an axe.  I do possess a 10 pound sledge hammer and a hatchet.  The hatchet was a pricey little purchase, but there are times when that little guy comes in very handy.  I used it a couple times to separate a chicken head from the body, but I do not do that any more.    My favorite way to butcher chickens was to grasp their feet, step on the head and jerk upward.  It was quick and painless, but barbaric.  Kenny's mom used to tie thier feet together and hang them from the clothes line.  She then streeeeeeeeeeeeetched out their head and proceeded to cut their head from their neck with a butcher knife.  Now THAT was barbaric!  I could scald and de-feather a chicken faster than anyone in the county, but that is history and I now buy my chicken breasts at the local frozen food section.

I just remembered why I started this blog!  I came across my hatchet the other day and noticed that there was a nick on the blade and that the blade was dull.  I have an electric grinding wheel in the garage with coarse and fine wheels.  I used to use it to sharpen my hoe, but since the snakes have taken over the garden, I do not plant any more and that area goes to weeds for the geese.  I am sure at some point in time I am going to have to do something, but for now, I am just going to have my humble breakfast of grits and cheese  and think about something else.

May Jake Smith rest in peace setting in his chair, propped against the tree, dreaming of his bygone life as a peace officer retired and sharpening axes and knives on North Strong Street, in Nickerson, Kansas.

Box Car Willie

I love youtube and usually have it playing in my background.  The other day I lucked onto the life story of Box Car Willie.  I do not remember dates, but he was one of the old singers and very successful in that endeavor.  He grew up in a shack with his mom and dad just a few feet from the railroad track where his dad worked.  The man could make the train whistle sound and it was so authentic that it was like the train was right in front of you.  And guess where that man took me?  Right back to Nickerson.

The railroad ran right across Main Street from East to West.  It came from somewhere and went to Hutchinson.  Kind of ran parallel to Highway 50 as I recall.  I have found in later years that it runs to La Junta, Colorado and turns south there and goes some where.  I used to ride from Garden City, Kansas to Hutchinson with my kids when I lived in Western Kansas.  But back to Nickerson.

In grade school I had a friend named Eveline.  She had very black hair and eyes.  Mother always said she was an Indian.  I did not know.  She had one sister and her name was Georgia.  They lived in a boxcar that set where the water tank for the train was located.  In Kansas, and I suppose all the places the train ran, there was a water tank every 7 miles.  The first trains had to take on water as they were steam engines.  Water had to be kept ready for whatever time the train came through.  That is why all the towns are 7 miles apart.  Some of them survived; some did not. Nickerson was one that did.

A lot has changed.  I know many years ago there had to be a man who shoveled the coal and kept the engine running.  I am sure now that if there are coal fired engines they are fed through some sort of mechanical means.  Now how I got off on this tangent is more that I can figure out!  What I want to tell you is how I would lay in bed at night and sometimes here the train whistle far off in the distance.  It was always the loneliest sound in the world.  The whistle would also bring on the howls of the wolves.  Train whistles and wolves have been ingrained in my mind as long as I can remember.  There is not a train track near my house now, but sometimes on a clear summer night with my windows open I can hear a faint whistle and it takes me back.

I recall when I started high school that I had to cross the tracks to get back to the road that led to my house.  That road was actually a county road that ran North to Sterling.  I lived one block off the highway.  Sometimes the train would be lumbering through and I could stand and watch it pass.  There were times that I could see men through the open door of the box car.  One time there was a man setting in the open door and he waved at me.  He wore overalls and he looked very sad.  After that I talked to Jake Smith who lived on Strong Street and he told me about how the hobos and tramps "rode the rails."  He said sometimes the "bulls" would pull them off the train and beat them to death.  Not sure if that was true or not, but in my impressionable little mind, anything was possible.

Then my brother, Jake, took me around to show me some of the signs that hobos left on peoples fences or trash cans to either denote a friendly person, a mean dog, or a hot meal for the asking.  They would make a mark to communicate and the other hobos knew to ask or pass that house by.  I do not know  if there are still hobos or not and I do not know how to find out.  I do know in later years the railroad owners hired people to keep the hobo's off the trains.

Life is so sad, isn't it?  Who knows what stories these men (there may have been women too) could tell.  I wish I could go back in time and talk to one of them.  I am pretty sure had I tried my mother would have beat me to death, but what a rich history that time was, and I was not smart enough to know it!  But back to Box Car Willie.  He brought the railroad to life.  He brought poverty to our door and he took the history of the box car  to England.  He was a scruffy little man, but he could pack a house.  They do not make them like that any more.

That era is gone and soon there will not be anyone to remember.  Sometimes my heart is very sad that I do not have knowledge of what I was living at the time.  My grand kids will never know what the outhouse was or that water had to be pumped from a well in the ground, or that the homeless people of today are the ancestors of the men who rode the rails.

Peace! and prosperity to all.

What has this old world come to that this is news?

Can you believe this?  click here

I remember growing up when we had to carry lunch to school because mother could not afford to pay for hot meals for all of us.  I do not recall what we had for lunch, but it was in a paper bag and we were under strict orders to bring the bag and all of the contents home after school.  The next morning we carried the same bag to school.  Waxed paper and everything was reused.

Looking back I can see the discrimination that was alive and well even then.  The tables for lunch were set up in the hallway down the center of the first floor.  They ran all the way between the first grade class room and the second and third grade  classroom.  We were not allowed to eat at the end closest to the kitchen.  Our designated place was at the end of the table nearest the stairs that started at the door of the fourth grade class and ran up to the 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th grade classrooms.

Since the Bartholomew kids were the only ones that had to carry their lunches we ate alone.  The expanse of table that ran from where we were to where the "hot lunch" kids ran was an expanse that I never conquered.  Every night I prayed that we would be rich and could afford hot lunches, but it never happened.

Every morning the smells from the school kitchen rose through the whole school.  Mrs. Ritchie could make my mouth water and my stomach cramp with those aroma's that wafted through the halls.  As sad as this may seem to you, I can still feel the humiliation of those days.  There was no such thing as a "free lunch".  Mother explained that if she had the money to pay for lunch for 3 or 4 of us kids that she could buy groceries to cook food for the whole family.  I did not understand that back then and thought she was just mean, but now I do.  Mother always said "Hind sight is 20/20 looking back."

We would steal sideways glances at the "hot lunch eaters" and as long as I had a sister with me, I was alright.  It was just that when I was alone, it was like I was on an island in the middle of the poverty ocean.  I did not resent the kids that could afford hot lunches, but I resented the fact that I was not allowed to set near them.  It was kind of like I had a disease and might contaminate them.  I want you to know that I can put myself in Anya Howard's shoes the only difference being that I lived it 5 days a week when school was in session.

I have since grown into a woman and sometimes talk to people who can remember back when they carried a lunch to school.  One lady told me how her lunch usually consisted of a potato sandwich.  Another carried carrots.  A man told me "nothing".

Today, I can laugh about those days of poverty.  I have not missed a meal in years and it shows.  I love my mother fiercely and I am very proud of my heritage.  I am proud that I grew up in Nickerson, Kansas on the dead end street called North Strong Street.  It is that backbone that drove me to make sure my kids had hot lunches and never missed a meal.  It is that background that makes my heart ache when a little girl is embarrassed by a woman that could have and should have paid for her meal.
Where is our compassion?  Are our hearts so cold that we can not see the hunger in a little girls eyes? I have tried to convey to my children love thy neighbor, do good to them that spitefully use you, and pray for those who persecute you.  I think they get it.  And I will pray for the cafeteria lady and the rules that made her do what she did.

Every day is a new day and a chance to do better and help our fellow man.

Plevna, Kansas holds my roots.

Gagnebien, Haas, Beck, Miller, Hatfield, and the list goes on.  When Haas members began to arrive through Ellis Island, they went straight to the "Beck Home" in Nickerson, Kansas and then branched out into the surrounding area, mainly Abbyville, Huntsville and Plevna.  Homesteading was active at the time and Nickerson was pretty well taken, causing them to branch further out in Reno, County. I have a family album that shows the Haas family cutting cottonwoods on the Arkansas River.  My branch of the family did not come here until 1884.  As I recall my grandfather was 6 or 9 years old when he went through Ellis Island.

I can still recall with fondness my Uncle Goll, Uncle Coon, Aunt Lizzie and my dear sweet Aunt Lena.  For some reason I thought my grandfather came to America in 1900, but it was actually 1884.  He was 12 years old at that time.  He married my grandma I 1900.  His father would be my great grandfather, Johann Jakob Haas.  Great granfather actually fathered 16 children by two women.   I come from a long line of weavers. tailors, vine dressers, bakers, and of course, farmers.  But all this is irrelevant to this post.

It must have been about 1970 or so that Dorothy and Ernie moved into a farmhouse outside of Plevna.  I know Little Ernie was just talking good.  I went to visit fairly regularly, but usually when Ernie was at work.  Little Ernie was always a special little boy to me although I had a nest full of my own.  He called me Aunt Do Do, since he could not pronounce Lou Lou.  "  I love you, Aunt Do Do."  Once he came running out of the bedroom to announce "Aunt Do Do, there is a hop grasser in my bedroom!"

Ernie had fenced off a portion of the yard and made that a pig pen.  I do not remember where he worked at the time, seems like he worked for Morton Salt.  Could be wrong.  The important part was that he was gone all day and Dorothy was pregnant.  One weekend he decided to build a new sty for the pigs so he got his lumber and drill.  Please know, that lumber and drill should never be used in a sentence with the name, "Ernie".  In typical fashion he held the 2 x4 up with one hand and drilled through it into his other hand.

They had a station wagon at the time so Ernie laid down in the back, kids were some where and Dorothy began the flying 20 mile trip to the hospital in Hutch.  Ernie would call out every few minutes, " I am still alive.  Drive carefully so you don't wreck.  Hurry!"  Dorothy told me that was her most harrowing trip in her life.  They sold the pigs soon thereafter and moved into town.  Think they moved out on Duffy Road at that time.

For many years we had a Haas family reunion at the school gymnasium.  Everyone brought a dish and we just kind of caught up on each other.  They tore down the school where I had attended my freshman year, but left the gym intact.  Hinshaws Dry Goods store burned.  I went through there once many years ago and the Smith house was a trailer park of sorts, meaning there were several mobile homes on the lot.   The Congregationalist Church was still there as was Grandma Haas's house.  The bank was still there.  I have got to take a day and go there next time I head East.  Course I remember when I stopped at Grandma's old house and got covered in ticks!  Do not want anymore of those.

Towns were built 7 miles apart back then because the trains needed a water stop.  Kansas is full of those little towns, or the remains of them.  Some of them survived, but many did not.  I love to look at my family book and try to envision what life was like back then.  Grandpa Haas married Josie Miller in 1900.  Uncle Gol married Aunt Helen who was Josie's sister, so I have double cousins out there in Southeast Kansas.  

My family is so diverse and far flung that one time I met a boy at a dance and came home to tell mother how great he was.  Her response was  "Forget it!  He is your cousin."  End of that romance and I do not even remember his name, so that is that.

I think I will plan a trip back home and go touch base with the old places in Plevna.  Aunt Lena is gone.  As far as I know the house where grandma lived is still standing.  Maybe I could find one of the Hinshaw twins!  Dean and forgot the other one.  Dean was dark complected  with dark hair and thin.  The other one was fair skinned with freckles and reddish blonde hair and a little on the heavier side.  I have forgotten my friends names!  Janet something.  Charlene Smith.  Damn!  A complete blank!  Maybe I will forget that trip.

Sure wish my momma was here.  She would remember.  

Who's gonna prime my pump?

I recall in Nickerson that running water was more than just turning on the faucet.  709 North Strong Street had no faucets.  Out by the horse tank was a field pump.  When the tank started getting low someone, usually Jake, had to pump the water into the tank to fill it back up so the horses could drink.  At the bottom of the pump hung a can.  That can was filled with water from the horse tank and poured into the top of the pump while pumping in short, fast strokes.  With luck, the pump would "catch it's prime quickly" and water would pump out through the mouth of the pump.  If you understand the workings of a pump you know that there is a leather inside that when pumped up and down draws the water up from deep in the well. Occasionally the leather becomes worn and needs replaced.

The pump at the horse tank was a big iron pump.  The handle was long and we used to like to pump because if we could keep a rhythm going the pump handle would sometimes jerk us up off the ground by the sheer force of the water.  We were also allowed to get in the horse tank and play sometimes.  Can you imagine how dirty that water was in that tank?  That coupled with the fact that the horses might want a drink while we were in there scared hell out of me!  Have you ever looked at horse teeth?  They are big and very yellow and I lived in mortal terror that one of them would eat me.  Life was hard back then.

All the house water for cooking, cleaning, bathing or whatever was carried from the pump outside into the house in buckets.  The tea kettle that set on the wood cook stove was kept full at all times and a cup of tea was just seconds away in case one of the fancy ladies from town came.  (This did not happen very often, and to my recollection, never.  Mother did clean houses and sometimes a lady would come to discuss her availability, but they were usually in a car and stopped in front of the house and honked.)

Ah. but fate smiled kindly us. I do not remember who, why or when, but at some point in time someone decided that mother needed a sink and a pump inside the house in the kitchen.  It was then that we were blessed with what was known as a "pitcher pump."  Now this was the cat's meow in pumps.  It did not need primed!  When we wanted water, we just started pumping and very soon it would "catch it's prime."  Talk about uptown!  It set of the end of a big oblong enamel sink.  The drain pipe ran through a hole in the wall that extended about 8 feet into the back yard.  There the drain water ran out onto the ground where the Muscovy ducks played in it.  Boy, that was one stinking mess, but it was sure handy.

I have to go into detail here about the Muscovy Ducks.  Those are about the nastiest things I have ever seen.  When I had my 17 geese and 37 ducks here I had 4 Muscovy's.  Now to the best of my knowledge, Muscovy's are the only domesticated ducks that can actually fly.  The 4 of them used to fly up to the house, across the fence and roost on the air conditioner.  Nasty.  The hens were little and delicate, but the drakes were twice as big and their necks were as big as my upper forearm.  They did not quack; they sort of quibbled.  I did not like them and I think they actually broke the neck of one of my geese.  They even looked evil.  All this has nothing to do with pumping water, does it?

I attended my first 3 years of high school in Nickerson.  It was during those years that I made 2 discoveries; home brew and boys, in that order.  I had a friend named LaVeta (no last name) whose dad made and bottled home brew.  He liked to go to the big city and gamble on Saturday nights and we liked to stay home and sample his home brew.  Her mother helped us.  She would take all us kids to Sterling and there were boys there!  There were dances there.  Sadly, I could not drink and dance, so the dancing went by the wayside and I learned to worhip at the feet of the porcelain God.  I have not had a bottle of homebrew in 60 years, but I can still taste it.  Once more I digress.

In due time mother graduated from Salt City Business College and we moved to the big city of Hutchinson.  The rest is history.  Louella Bartholomew grew up and not longer exists, or so we think.
Some where deep in my soul, she lives.  Her memories are as vivid today as they were when she was living them.  Homebrew and boys are a thing of the past, but the wants and the needs of that skinny little girl are as alive today as they were in that stick and mortar house at 709 Strong Street.

Peace to all.

One of my favorite things.

Abandoned and Haunted Places is a site on facebook.  Go there and do a search and it will come up.  It is a closed group, but they will let you in just for the asking.  I just came from there and saw a big layout of a mansion fallen into rack and ruin.  I have always been fascinated by old houses and that used to be a big deal back when we were young.  Around Nickerson there were several old houses that were within walking distance that I could go explore and I did.  I would let my imagination run wild and picture the mother and father with the children and the dog.  The family always had a dog.

When I moved to Colorado, this fascination moved with me.  Charlie took me up to the abandoned town on the old LaVeta Pass.  At that time there were several buildings still standing and still intact.  The cemetery was right on the edge of town.  I was fascinated with one grave that was surrounded by a wrought iron fence.  I do not remember any of the particulars, but it was clearly not tended.  None of the graves were.  Cemeteries hold a lot of history and I am sure if I could spend enough time there I could conjure up a ghost or two, but I have yet to meet anyone that shares my fascination.  When I go up to Beulah to see my friend Jan, I always make a drive through the cemetery up there.  I always visit the Caple lot and usually encounter a few deer.  But houses have a whole different fascination.  This is my friend who went with me once, Patty Crehan.  The Caple lot is in the back on the right side of the picture.

This is a house in Longton, Kansas near where my daughter, Patty lives.  It is very well maintained. Or I should say "was " since it burned to the ground several years back.

Now here is something very fascinating!  This house is on the other end of Longton and is surrounded by trees.  It is not well maintained at all, but if you look at the architecture of the two houses, they are nearly identical.  This one was taken over by the druggies, but Patty has assured me that it has since been reclaimed and restored to it's former beauty.  I have not been by there, but next time I go I will.

If there is any one out there with the same fascination for the obscure and forgotten that I have,hmu!  (That means Hit Me Up!  I learned that on facebook.)  It is getting a little cold right now to be tromping around abandoned houses with rotten floors, but Spring will be here some day.  Kenny always meant to take me up on LaVeta, but some how the time was never quite right.  He rode a Harley when I met him and it had a small problem.  The brake cylinder leaked and threw the fluid out on my leg so I had to wear clothes I did not want to wear again.  Of course there was always the inevitable application of the brake when the fluid was all gone and no hope of stopping.  Luckily he sold that before we were both statistics.

So, in the meantime, I will just be setting here waiting for someone to realize that I need someone to go exploring with me.  I am sure I can talk Irene into it when she comes back in the Spring, but maybe not.  In the meantime, there is an old cemetery out east of town and I forgot the name, but I saw an arrow pointing that way when I was in Avondale some time back and driving on a back road, so I know it is there.  And a man once told me about some hieroglyphic's he came across just this side of the New Mexico state line.  He found a lot of arrow heads there. He said it was undisturbed.  He found it when he was on horseback herding cattle.  Might look into that, but it would be nice to find a fellow traveler.

In the meantime, I will just set over here and tend to my knittin' like a good little girl.  Maybe I could go pour through my pictures and organize them so next time I want to find something it will be in my newly organized photo album online and waiting!

Have a good one!