It is morning!

Click here for the music! 

I seem to function best back in the 1940's.  It was the tail end of the depression and we had nothing, but that is where I was happy.  Maybe not so happy, but secure.  I was safe.  I think that was what draws me back to that era.  We were together in a 2 bedroom house with a wood stove in the dining room, front room, and in the kitchen for cooking.  We carried water from a pump out back until we finally got a sink and pump in the kitchen.  

A coal oil hurricane lamp in the middle of the dining room table gave us light to do our home work.  My fondest memory is setting at that table with a red Chief tablet and a fat pencil  printing my ABC's.  I wrote about that years ago and a wonderful lady, Linda Kelp, who is Michael McQuire's cousin sent me  4 Big Chief tablets from her home up north.  I still have them!  I do not use them.  I wrote on one page of one tablet where they came from and that is all.

It is sad some of the things I do and the things I hoard!  My cupboards are full of cottage cheese containers because I can not bear to throw them away!  We did not have them back then.  I do not know when we became a nation of disposable everything.  I remember when the city dump was a designated area outside of town and that is where people took their tin cans.  Everything else was reused.  Today we call it recycle, but mostly it just goes in the trash and is hauled to the dump.  I understand it is then pressed into a big block and either buried or dumped into the ocean.  I do not see either one of those solutions as being permanent!  Burning it pollutes the air we breathe, so you tell me!

Well, once more I have gotten off track!  I started this wanting to tell you how safe and secure I was as a child even though we had very little in material possessions, and end up wanting to clean up the world and save it for our children.  This old age is not conducive to stringing and article together to a cohesive conclusion!

So, I guess I will make a pot of coffee and start my day with the local news followed by the national news, neither of which I can do anything about!  I am better off just listening to Merle Haggard sing me back home (click that).

Peace and love!

Growing up on the Stroh place.

According to records in my geneagloy collection and stories handed down, my dad had gone to work as a hired hand for Josie Haas, a widow woman.  My mother had eloped and gone to Chicago with a man named Jack Walden, who was rumored to be a criminal who worked for the "mob".  She was 19 years old at the time.  She escaped in the dark of night and came home to grandma.  Or so the story goes.  

At that time Reuben Bartholomew was the handyman for Josie Haas.  Christine Haas was her daughter.  Christine and Reuben soon fell in love and married.  What followed is history.

 Of course, I was not born yet when that happened, so I can only surmise!  My first memories are of life on the Stroh place outside of Nickerson before I started school.  By coordinating my memories to what I recall I can figure out, I must have been about 6 years old when we left there and moved across town to the Ailmore place.

The big book that shows my genealogy is screwed up and shows my sister Mary married Tom Shea when she was 2 days old.  So I am going to forgo  dates and jump right into my memories.  According to the birth dates that I am sure are correct, I was six years old when Dorothy was born.  I remember momma bringing her home and she was crying all the time.  Harvest was about a week away and when it came time to drive the truck that hauled the wheat to the silo in town, Dorothy went with momma.  She was nursing and there was not much she could do, but take her. 

So the dynamics of the home at that point in time were these:  

Josephine, my half sister from mom's first marriage was 12 years old.

Jake was 10.

I was 6.

Donna was 4.

Mary was 2.

And Dorothy was new.

I did not like her because Momma always babied her.  Of course, she was a baby, but that was not taken into consideration.  My dad worked as a farm hand for a man who owned bottom land named John Britain.  We did not know him very well., but sometimes Dad would take Jake and I to work with him.  There was a slough that ran through the farm and sometimes it would have water flowing through it.  The water fed through to the Arkansas River which was next to the land.  If Jake had been lucky in his foraging he would have enough scraps of wood to build me a boat of sorts to float in the slough.  If not we just poked around to find crawdads.

I recall one time when Donna who must have been about 3 years old at the time poked her finger at a turtle, which latched right on and would not let go.  It was rumored that it would let go when the sun went down.  Donna screamed he head off until John Britain took his pocket knife and severed its head from its neck.  It let go then and I do not think Donna ever did that again.

As I recall, momma had geese and one time John Britain and dad snuck a goose egg into the chicken house and when John's wife found it, she was very excited!  "Oh look at the size of this egg my chicken laid!"  Not sure if anyone ever told her!

I started school on the Stroh place and one time it snowed very deep and Jake Stroh brought his horse to the school so he could bring us kids home to momma.  People used to help people like that.  It was called "helping your neighbor".  It must have been one of the memories that makes me help people today.  It was just "doing the right thing."  Helping your neighbor.

We need more of that today.  We need more kids playing with crawdads in a slough.  We need more walks in the woods and more helping each other and less television time.  I guess even televisions are going by the wayside and being replaced with computers, cell phones and the internet.

I may have outlived my usefulness!

Peace!

Let's start this off with a song!

click here Now that right there is the truth if ever I printed it!  Back in the days of sand and shovels life was so much easier!  We walked to school in a cluster.  Our family lived on Strong Street and there were 3 houses with kids.  On the end were the Ayers kids.  Willis, Ralph, and Marurite.  Then the Reinke kids.  Delores and Irene.  Flo was older so she ignored us.  Then came the little Bartholomew kids! Josephine, Jake, and me.   Donna, Mary and Dorothy would come later. I attended all 8 years in that 2 story red brick building on the corner by the First Christian Church.  I attended that church the same 8 years. 

We all walked to school.  Not so much in a group as one would think, but rather as a bunch of stragglers off to learn to be responsible adults some day.  My brother Jake was pretty much a goof off  but most of the boys in that era were.  He finally joined the Army, because that is what boys did back then.

Now back then, if a kid misbehaved they were sent to the office where Mr. Houston would administer the proper punishment.  That usually meant a spanking.  Lordy!  times have changed, haven't they?  If your kid got a spanking at school, they would also get a better spanking at home.  No mother or father wanted to have a kid that would misbehave in public.  It just was not done!  Period.  End of story.  The classroom teacher was not allowed to spank.  She (and most of them were women) would walk up behind an inattentive, wiggly kid and whack them on top of the head with the edge of a wooden ruler.  Trust me on this; I seen stars for days!  Mrs. Howe was the only one who ever struck me.  That woman was mean!  I prayed every morning that she would not look at me, but God ignored my plea!

I still remember my teachers through grade school.  First  grade was Miss Donough who married in the middle of the year and became Mrs. Breece.  She was so kind.  Then grade two was Mrs. Wait.  Grade 3 was Miss Holmes who was very sweet.  Fourth grade was Mrs. Howe who was, to my recollection, the meanest woman in the world.  Fifth grade was Miss Swenson who was kind and the first person to ever praise me for my feeble attempt at writing poetry.  She actually got me published in a magazine that was popular at the time. Sixth grade brought Miss Lauver.  She was strict, but very fair and probably one of the best teachers in the school.  Old maid.  Seventh grade was Mr. Schriber and eighth was Mr. Bollinger.  I did not like men teachers.  They were full of themselves.  But in all fairness, Mr. Bollinger owned the movie theater so he was cool.  

At the time I was in school there were less than 1,000 people in Nickerson.  The red brick building has been demolished and a one story grade school built a block away.  A bunch of houses occupy the lot where so many memories were made.  The church I attended which set on the corner across the street from the school is boarded up now.  There is one grocery store and it is in the building the appliance store used to occupy.  I left Nickerson, Kansas 65 years ago, but in my mind, I am still there.

We never wore shoes to school in the fall.  When the weather started getting cold the shoes were dug out and whoever they fit had shoes.  The Montgomery Ward Catalog was dug out and feet were measured and new shoes bought for whoever did not get a pair of hand me down shoes.  Life was hard back then, but poverty did not discriminate.  New shoes were a luxury, but they were also harbingers of blisters on our feet because they were stiff and needed "broke in".  I did not like new shoes.

I watched the kids getting on the bus in front of my house.  They are in little uniforms.  Shoes are all the same color.  Wonder how that works for developing adults that are unique?  Oh well.

Busy day ahead of me so I better get busy.  The days of sand and shovels must go back in my mind and wait for another day.  I hope I never get so old that I forget where I came from and the road I took to get to this day.  School days, school days, dear old golden rule days!  Reading and writing and arithmetic. taught to the tune of a hickory stick.........

Peace!

...

His name was Dewite Jackson.

(That was not his real name, but rather a pseudonym that I shall use in case he is still alive and/or has family back in Nickerson, Kansas.)

Times were definitely different back then.  Nickerson Grade School was a 2-story red brick building.  Lunch was served in the downstairs Hall for everyone except the little Bartholomew kids who carried potato sandwichs tied up in a handkerchief.  The kitchen was located at the end of the hall and right between the girls' bathrooms and the boys' bathrooms.   Grades 1-4 were on the first floor and 5-8 were on the second floor. The Principals office was located on the second floor.  The principal at the time was Mr. Somebody who was in charge of running the whole school and making sure there was harmony and a conducive atmosphere for learning.

Now, the first thing you should know is that back in those days, 70 years ago life was different.  There was a thing that existed called "discipline."  It existed in homes and schools across our fair land.  It was usually dispensed at home, so schools ran on an even keel and if an incident happened at school (which was a rarity) it was handled in the principal's office.  

At the time of this particular incident, I must have been in about the fifth grade.  Dewite was probably an eighth grader.  Mr. Somebody stormed onto the playground and grabbed Dewite by the ear and marched him into the school, up the stairs and into the Principals office.  I have no idea what offence he had committed, but we all knew it was bad!  Now we all knew that Dewite was just a little short in the social skills department.  Back in those days it was referred to as "odd", and today it would be recognized as a social problem, but that was before the days of "awareness."  Back to the story.

Mr. Somebody was a skinny fellow who always wore a suit and tie.  Physically he was a skinny man who, in retrospect, would not survive an altercation with anyone else his size.  And Dewite was bigger than him.  We all stood on the playground looking at the office window which was open.  We watched in further amazement as the black rubber hose that was used for disciplining errant students   came sailing out the window and landed on the ground.  It was followed very shortly with Dewite emerging from the back door of the school and walking across the playground to his home right across the street.

We never saw Dewite again.  I think his mother just kept him home because back in those days there were not schools that could handle "special needs".  Soon we forgot about him.  The music teacher married Mr. Somebody's son, although she loved the coach.  I knew many things back then, but few of them have survived the passing of 70 years.  

I am rather glad that schools have changed, and students now have rights, which brings me to another point.  With rights also comes responsibility.  We learned that early in life.  Seventy years ago, was a different world.  We were taught respect for our elders at home about the same time we learned to walk.  We never questioned adult authority and that was not always good.  Some adults were not respectable, but we survived.  We survived to live another day and to raise kids that respected elders but could also question authority if it did not seem right.

Several years ago, Dona Marie and I went back to Nickerson.  They have built a new school and there are homes where the old school stood.  Main Street is mostly deserted.  Engles Candy and Book store is gone.  Warn Appliance.  The drug store.  IGA moved and Flemings is gone.  It is hard for me to realize that all this was seventy years ago!  I can still see it in my mind's eye like it was yesterday.

The one thing I have learned is that no matter how things change, the more they stay the same!  The schools have changed and discipline is no longer handled behind closed doors with a rubber hose.  I think that is good, although I have seen quite a few instances where the old saying "Spare the rod and spoil the child" comes to mind.

Well, for the most part, I think I turned out pretty well, but I do wonder about Dewite and a lot of my classmates.  Reminds me of something my oldest daughter is fond of saying, "What don't kill you will make you strong."

And so it goes!

Peace!

Momma and the mink jacket.

 I recall the growing up days in Nickerson as the worst kind of poverty.  Looking back there are a lot of things I endured that were worse than the stigma associated with the Strong Street years.  Many times, I have longed for the security of that dilapidated old house with the outhouse behind it.  Through all the times of trouble and strife Momma kept food on the table and Dad kept the wood box full of wood to burn for both heat and cooking.  I remember the first butane cook stove we had.  What a luxury that was!  It was only used for cooking special meals.  But I digress!

When momma finished her course at the Salt City Business School, she found a job with Franklin Fee Investment Company.  She wore a dress to work and set at a desk doing desk stuff.  We finally moved from Nickerson to Hutchinson.  We first lived on Avenue A, but then Momma got a chance at a house on Fifth Street that she could buy.  We became homeowners.  At that point in my life, it meant little to me. What mattered most was the house next door.  It had an enclosed front porch and a sign out front that said, "Elledge Furs".  Inside the window stood a mannequin wearing a mink jacket.  Her eyes were blank as she stared into the abyss that was her life.  But that jacket caught my mother's eye!  

Mother went to Mrs. Elledge and made arrangements to pay money on that jacket "every time I get a little extra".  And she did!  We never missed a meal, but sometimes momma would pick up a little babysitting or house cleaning and that was "extra", so it went on the jacket.  We never missed a meal and at some point, the jacket was paid for, and it came to reside in our closet.  I am not sure I ever seen her wear it, but the glory of it was that my Momma had it and it was real mink!  She modeled it when she brought it home and that was the last I saw of it.  I will have to ask Donna whatever became of it.

The last time I went to Hutchinson, I drove down 5th Street.  The plumbing shop was a sewing shop and Elledge Furs, along with our house and the next few houses around it was now an apartment complex.  Dillons was still across the street, but it had gotten a lot bigger.  So much has changed since I lived there!  I recall an old adage, "You can't go home again".  Momma said that and you know what?  Momma was right!

Momma was always right!

Peace!

Getting ready for new beginnings!

 Tomorrow when I wake up November will be behind me.  The bad memories can rest until next year.  It is not like shutting a door and moving on, it is just closing a door and living my life.  It all sounds good, doesn't it?  And I really wish it worked that way, but it doesn't.

I sometimes long for the days gone by when the only thing I had to worry about was whether I would be scared when my brother hid and jumped out at me in the darkened path on the way to the outhouse in the middle of the night!  Or whether one of us would drown in Vincents sandpit where we were cooling off on a hot summer day.  Or whether one of us would choke to death on a bone lodged in our throat from the big old Carp that momma caught in the Arkansas River when she seined for our supper.  Or whether that green Peach I stole off the tree by the chicken house was going to kill me for sure this time.

I remember the rabbit hutches and the babies that grew to be our supper.  I remember the nasty old Muscovy Ducks foraging for a scrap of something in the bottom of the mudholes behind the house where the kitchen sink drained out a pipe from the house.  I remember how the big red rooster used to seek me out and chase me out of the barnyard.  I remember my brother putting the baby kittens in a sack and throwing them in the river.  He wasn't being mean, he was doing as he was told.  Momma could hardly feed us, let alone a bunch of kittens.

Momma always said that people are like the seasons.  Babies are born like the Spring and are fresh and new and flourish, but when we get old we are like the Autumn.  We lose our leaves and and become skeletal like the barren tree against a cold dark sky.  

I have always accepted life in that manner.  I look around at my friend pool, and it is about dried up!  That young girl that used to race out the door and down the street to dance all night has ceased to exist.  The auburn hair is white now and the barefeet that used to fly across the floor are encased in a pair of orthopedic shoes.  The catfish that used to be fun to catch, dipped in corn meal and fried has been replaced by some sort of white, flaky stuff raised on a farm somewhere in a spring fed lake.  Most meals are steamed and fried is a thing of the past.

Fall is here and Winter is on the way!  That means I have to be careful not to slip and fall and wind up with a broken hip.  I have no desire whatsoever to jump in a snow drift or even throw a snowball at the mailman, or mailwoman as the case may be!  A trip out back with a bucket of water for the geese is about all the excitement this old broad can handle!

But I remember!  The kids today will never know the joy of walking home from school in knee deep snow.  They will never know the joy of a pair of galoshes with fur around the top that Santa Claus brought to replace the black ones that Jake grew out of and passed down to me.  They will never know the closeness of sleeping in a bed with 3 other kids.  They will never know what joy a Saturday night bath in a big aluminum tub was!  

The older I get, the fonder the memories become!  Momma always told me that someday my childhood would be something I would look back on and smile.  Something that would bring me joy.  And momma was right!

Momma was always right!

Life before the street lights came on.

 I started first grade a month before I turned 5.  I remember my teacher was Miss Donough when we started and she was Mrs. Breece when school was out for the summer.  We lived on the Stroh place when we started, but moved into the only home my father ever bought before school was out for the summer.  I have few memories of the Stroh place, but those I have are vivid.  Dorothy was born there.  Mother went to club every month there.  There was a big mudhole by the house that we were not supposed to play in there.  Donna poked a turtle with her finger and it latched on and John Britan had to cut its head off to make it let go.  Jake was kicked in the face by our Shetland pony.  He carried the scar until the day he died. Our old cow caught some disease and died, leaving us with no milk for the baby.  But in the spring, we moved to our own house on the other side of town out by the cemetery.  Dad bought another cow.  That was Strong Street.  709 North Strong Street to be exact.

I do not remember where the street light was located, but it seems to me it was right past the Reinke house and before the Smith house.  Probably right in front of the Goodrick house.  I do know we went out every night after supper to play in the "hood".  We had to be careful not to speak to any strangers because they would kidnap us and kill us or sell us to the Gypsy's which was a fate far worse then death!

Strong Street was a destination, not something you came across by accident, so we were fairly safe there.  Hank Windiate, the old crippled man with the horse and wagon lived on the end of the street, right across from Jerry and Ora Ayres.  First was our house, then the Reinke house, then Jake Smith and then Hank Windiate. The Ayres house, which was seperated by a vacant lot from the Goodrick house was the last house on that side of the street.

  

Our house, the Reinke house and the Ayres house were the only houses that had kids.  The Reinke girls, whose mother had died after giving birth to her last child, were not allowed out after dark.  Neither were the Ayres kids who were older, so it was basically just us.  So every night it was a rousing game of "Kick the Can!"  Now, for those of you who do not know how to play this, I will explain the rules.

First, you must have a can.  Now back in the 40's, a tin can was a coveted item.  First it meant your parents had enough money to buy a can of vegetables, or your brother had gone to the dump and foraged around and found a nice solid tin can!  Jake was good at that!  The can was placed upside down over a place that was designated as "home" and was usually located by the old Catalpa tree.  Whoever was "It" closed their eyes and counted to 100 while all the kids ran and hid.  Then "It" would go and find the hiding kids.  That kid would be brought back to the can and placed in "jail."  The only way to get out of jail was for one of the "hiders" to wait for the "jailer" to wander off and look for another hider to tag and "arrest".  When the jailer left someone could run in and "kick the can", thereby freeing all the kids held in the jail.  Some times one of the kids from "town" would come by and play.  That always made it more fun.

We were allowed to play for 30 minutes after the street light came on.  We knew when 30 minutes was past because mother would holler for us to "get in here and get ready for bed."  Now "getting ready for bed" was another ritual.  That simply meant washing our feet in the wash bowl in the kitchen and drying them on the ragged old towel that hung from the back of the chair.  Now that may not sound like much to you, but to this day, I can not go to bed with dirty feet.  Of course, now that I have shoes AND socks, dirty feet are a rarity around here, but some memories never die.  

Sometimes I find myself looking at an empty can and thinking how Jake would immediately think about using it for our next game of "Kick the Can."  I wonder if my sister, Donna Bartholomew remembers those nights on Strong Street?

The years have dimmed my eyes and slowed my feet, but my mind continues to relive some of the best times of my life back when the hardest thing I had to do was "Kick the Can" and save my sisters and brother.  I wonder if that helped make me into the woman I am today, that marched in the Gay Rights Parade and held the hands of the hospice clients as they crossed to the other side?  I like to think so.  

I do know Mothers Day is just around the corner and I would give my right arm to just be able to see my mother one more time and look into her gray eyes and tell her I love her.  I think she always knew, but I never said it often enough.

I host a high tea at my church the Saturday before Mother's Day.  Tickets are $25 if you are interested.  This year I am going to have a table for "Mothers pictures."  If you are interested in attending contact me here on facebook or call my church at 719-544-1892 and leave a message with Jill.   My number is 719-546-1555 here at home.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness!

 At least that is what momma always told us.  Now back in the day that she preached that, we did not have running hot and cold water.  We never actually had any running water in the house.  We had an electric pump out by the horse tank.  Horses need a lot of water.  Since their water needed to be clean, we were not allowed to play in the horse tank no matter how hot it was.  Of course, I was terrified of those big horses with their big, yellow teeth.   There was no way in the world that I would let them come near me.  Of course, my dad was not the best fence builder, so it was not unusual to find they had escaped.  That meant we had to go find them and lead them home.  "We" was usually Jake and I.  I digress.

Summers in Kansas are very hot!   Very hot and usually very dry, but occasionally we did get a rain.  When that happened, Strong Street was usually flooded.  Since we had an old car that was only used to go to Grandma's house, we walked everywhere.  Now you should know that barefeet in the mud is one of the small pleasures we had.  A mud puddle was meant to be walked through barefooted!  I think that might have been a law back then.

Now, you should know that bare feet and cool water in a mud puddle is not the only joy of my childhood!  When the mudpuddle began to dry up, we did not walk in it.  We waited patiently for it to dry up and when it did there was a whole new joy!  When it was completely dry, it formed a crust.  The crust then turned into a curled- up crust and we could step on the curls and feel them crumble beneath our feet.  Oh, my vision of heaven contains a lot of mudpuddles!  Of course, this was the bane of my mother's existence!  Before we came in the house we had to go to the pump and wash our feet.  "You are not getting in that bed with those filthy feet!"

So, Jake and I would take turns pumping for the smaller kids and each other.  Bonding was different back there on Strong Street than it was on Avenue A in Hutchinson.  When we moved to the big city with running water, we were afraid to use it.  We did not want to "wear it out" or "use it all up".  We did like to set in the bathtub with no water on hot days and watch the little red haired boy who worked at the film developing place across the alley.  Forgot the name of it, but the boy's name was Tommy and my little sister, Mary ending up marrying him!  Sadly, they are both gone now.  There is  nobody left but Donna and I.  

Funny how that works, isn't it?

It makes me sad.

 As life goes on, so does my memory, which is actually a good thing until it wakes me up in the middle of the night.  Last night I woke up remembering my oldest sister and, of course, Nickerson, Kansas.  I was 15 years old and my sister, Josephine was pregnant.  She had a little girl who was 3 or 4 as I recall.  Her husband was at work in the oil field.  As I recall his shifts were 24 on and 24 off, but that could be just something that came into my head, because I never really paid much attention.

On this particular day I had been sent to stay with her to keep an eye on her daughter, who shall remain nameless for this story.  I liked the little girl so it was no problem to entertain her.  Josephine was another matter.  She stayed in bed and appeared to be in some sort of distress, but how was I to know what was actually happening?  I had no idea where babies came from and was not interested in learning about the birds and the bees at this point in my life.  I was there to entertain my niece, and that was what I was doing.  But Josephine had other ideas.

She called me into the bedroom and told me to take her daughter, my niece, and go get help because the baby was coming.  I grabbed my niece and ran next door to the preachers house.  He called the grocery store and told his wife, who was a nurse, to come home right now.  He assured me it was all under control and that I should take my niece and go to my house where mother was and send her to Josephine.

It was only 3 blocks, but it seemed like it was miles.  I carried my niece most of the way which was not easy as she was heavy for me.  But we made it.  Mom left on foot because we had no car.  To make a long story short, the baby was stillborn.  It was a little boy.  

The next day, Jack Lamb, the mortician, brought a tiny coffin to the house.  He brought it in and set it on the coffee table.  He opened the lid to show us a very tiny little boy wrapped in a soft blue blanket.  His little hand was positioned to hold the blanket closed and I would have thought he was only sleeping had I not known.  That was so sad and a picture in my mind that will never fade.  

Since that time, I have attended many funerals, but I always see that tiny baby in my mind.  I went to visit the Nickerson cemetery several years back and visited the tiny grave of Baby Boy.  He did not have a name, but he will never be forgotten.  Although he never breathed a breath on this side of the veil, he still lives in my mind and my heart.  65 years later he is still in my mind holding his blanket together under his tiny chin.

Some memories never die.

Company's comin' up the road!!

 Back in the day when life was laid back and summer days were long and winter nights were cold, a visitor was a rarity.  Cars were few and far between and if a car pulled on to our road leading up to the Stroh place we knew we were going to have company and they probably would spend the night.  I remember one such visit, but I do not remember who it was.  Only thing I am sure of was that it was Aunt somebody and Uncle somebody.  

Apparently mother had received some sort of message either through the mail or a phone call from somebody and the visit was expected.  Momma would spend days cleaning the house in preparation for the big day.  I do recall the time Uncle Ode came to visit.  What I remember is that he was tall and smoked a pipe and it smelled so very good.  He asked it I would like a puff and of course I said yes.  Momma said "NO" but Uncle Ode stuck the stem in my mouth and told me to take a deep suck on it.  Oh, my good God in heaven, I damn near choked to death!  Of course Uncle thought it funny but mother did not! 

When Uncle Ode came he only stayed a few hours, but I recall one visit from Aunt and Uncle Somebody.  They had a new shiny black car.  I might note that back then there were two colors for a car, black or blacker.  Later they would add a dung green, and then brown.  I was  allowed to be lifted into the car and I could set there and look around, but do not get it dirty!  I wallowed in dirt all day long so I had to be "dusted off" before I was allowed to set on the pristine seat!  

Starting the car entailed poking a "crank" into the front of the car under the radiator and turning it firmly until the engine "caught".  Then the driver would engage the clutch, engage the transmission and when he released the clutch  the car would move forward and they would disappear in a cloud of dust!  Cars were few and far between in our little world, but we liked to see them.  Jake and I used to set under the bridge and hope one would pass over us, but not break the bridge down so as to kill us!

Jake always wore overalls and us girls always wore a dress.  I recall in high school one day a year was designated as "tacky" day.  We could wear jeans that day, but I did not have any.  When school started momma made each of us girls dresses and of course I inherited the ones Josephine grew out of and passed mine down to Donna.  When clothes were "worn completely out" they were then taken apart and went for another use.  The worn parts were rags for cleaning.  The still good parts were cut into one inch strips and a slit cut in each end.  These were then lace together and rolled into a ball.  When mother had enough balls she took them to the "weaver lady" who wove them into a rug.  Nothing was ever disposed of until it was completely used up.  We even had a "button jar."

I know that sometimes when I write on here it seems that my childhood was very sad, but it was not!  Back in those days it was different.  We had an outhouse, but a lot of people did.  Inside plumbing was a rarity and non-existent on Strong Street.  Meals were mostly pots of soup or beans.  We heated with a wood stove and cooked on one also.  We played "Kick the Can" when we were lucky enough to find a can.  Our quiet place was the cemetery behind the house.  Momma made our soap with old save up lard that was first used for cooking and then strained and turned into "lye soap" with lye she made by dripping water through soft, gray wood ashes from the cook stove.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not thank God for sending me to the mother he sent me to live with.  She was a pioneer.  She was honest to a fault.  She was dependable.  Her heart was broken by me many times, but she never gave up on me and never once ever told me I was a disappointment, even when I knew I was. 

So, fancy cars, running water, a cupboard full of food and a home that stays the same temperature all year long with the touch of a dial, are all taken for granted.  My ancestors were pioneers and I thank God every day for them.  And you know the best part of all of this?  I see it reflected in everyone of my kids.  They are all honest, dependable, God fearing little creatures that are always in touch with their momma!

And I am as proud of them as I can be!  And there is a song that reflects all this.  It goes like this;

Count your many blessings, name them one by one, 

and it will surprise you what the Lord has done!click here

A time for new beginnings?

 A Happy Birthday to me!!  These keep right on coming and the only way to stop them is to die, apparently.  Since I am showing no signs of that, I will just open my cards, answer my phone and say thank you.  I realize birthday is a good time to look back down the cluttered road of my life and remember birthdays before.  Now here is the really sad part, I don't remember them.  There is only one birthday that I can actually focus in on and remember it clearly.  That was my seventh.  

First I want to tell you that over the years I have had husbands, kids, friends, acquaintances, teachers, co- workers, lovers, family and my birthday has never been forgotten.  And every card, letter, phone call or personal visit has meant a lot to me.  I have been covered in flowers delivered by FTD and the aroma still fills my senses.  I love flowers!  I hate it when they have stayed past their prime and I have to throw them out and put the vase some where.  All of these touched me deeply, but the one 73 years ago will travel with me to the streets of gold!

Mother cleaned houses as a side job and one of her clients was a lady named Paralee who was also a cousin to mom.  Paralee was also the neice of Aunt Helen and Uncle Skinny Lang.  Not real sure how all the blood lines worked in here, but I do know that side of the family had money.  That and the fact that Paralee and her husband worked and only had one kid.  On this particular birthday, Paralee wanted to see that I had a birthday party.

I am not sure how many kids from school showed up, but I do know somebody gave me a gift of a cookie cutter.  It was red plastic and the design was Cinderella.  I was ecstatic!  It immediately became my favorite possession.  Now you need to understand that growing up in Nickerson without benefit of running water in a house heated with a wood stove was not exactly the lap of luxury.  Gifts were few and far between and the cookie cutter joined the Chiquita Banana cloth doll that mom had gotten with coupons saved and then stitched  the pieces together by the light of a coal oil lantern.  I slept with the cookie cutter and the cloth doll.  I dreamed of the day when I could make cookies and cut them with my own cookie cutter.  

The dream of the cookies I would make was much like building castles in the air.  Sugar was rationed.  Since the cow had died, butter was non existent.  Store bought "butter" was a one pound block of white grease with an orange pellet that you poked a hole in and then worked it into the white grease so it looked like butter.  World War II left an indelible mark on most of us kids back then.  Our sole source of information was what we picked up listening to the adults.  I know I was too young to understand, but I can remember the jubilation when the war was over and our troops came home.  

Some how all the horror of Auschwitz and the pictures of the emaciated bodies of the Jews still lives in the recesses of my mind.  The stories that came out of that period must never be forgotten.  We must never again turn a blind eye on man inhumanity to man.   

And once more, my mind has turned a corner.  How did I go from a happy 7 year old at her first birthday to Auschwitz?  Could it be that perhaps this is where my passion for lifting the downtrodden  comes from?  I can clearly remember things that I should not remember.  I can hear Roosevelt announcing on the radio "The war is over."  I do not think it was actually him since the war officially ended after his death, but memory is a funny thing.

Momma always said that our mind will remember what our mind wants to remember and momma was right.  I want to remember a red Cinderella cookie cutter and a birthday party that may or may not have actually happened.  So, on my happy birthday to me day, that is what I will remember.  And I will see friends that love and care for me.  By the very act of clinging to life for 80 years, I have earned my stripes!

So Happy Birthday to me!  And rest assured, I am not done yet!  I may be the matriarch, but I am still 7 years old in my mind; an innocent little girl aching to grab the world by it's horns and make it her oyster!

Peace and love!

The center of home and family.

 The first time my mother came to this house is clear in my memory.  This table was new at the time and I had not bought the china cabinet, but the memory is clear.  I had picked her up in La Junta and brought her for her first visit to Colorado.  Mother never liked to drive and so the train was her mode of transportation.  She boarded in Hutchinson and arrived at La Junta.  That is where the train turns and heads south as I understand it.  Why it does not come to Pueblo is beyond me, but I was not in on the planning of the route.  This may all change some day, but I sadly fear I will not see that although I did work on getting a line to connect Pueblo and Denver.  Some where in that one is a "switch" to connect La Junta and Pueblo and then north to Denver.  That is all moot. 

She set at this table and we had a glass of tea.  As she set there she remembered many tables like this in her life time.  As far back as I can remember there has always been a round oak table.  Oak used to be a cheap wood and perfect for making a round table.  I am sure there are square ones, but not in my memory.  A coal oil lamp was in the center, perched on a crocheted doily.  

When I lived with the grandma's in Plevna, the round oak table was covered by a hand crocheted table cloth and in the center was a ruffled doily that held a coal oil lamp.  It was at that table that I learned to crochet the ruffled doily that held the coal oil lamp.

I think when we left Nickerson, she left the oak table behind because it was heavy and awkward and she wanted one of the new Formica ones that did not require oil to keep its luster. 

As she stretched her arms to feel the smoothness of the oak surface, I could see her mind going back to her childhood.  "This is where the family always came together.  After work they ate together.  Decisions were made at this table.  Home work was done by the light of a coal oil lamp.  We mourned at this table when a soul passed.  We celebrated a birth, or a wedding at this table.  It was the center of our life.  Promises were made and promises were broken at this table.  It was the center of life."

Mother was right.  It was at a round oak table in Nickerson that I did my homework.  Every meal was eaten at that table.  Home made ice cream was eaten at that table.  It was at that table that we learned of deaths, births, weddings and everything else that transpired.  It was in the center of the center room of our home.  It was the center of the home.

                                                                                                              

When you come to my house, we will have coffee or tea at this table.  When we eat, we eat at this table.  My correspondence is written at this table and bills are paid at this table.  I have a kitchen counter and stools at the counter, but I never use them.  They are to hold "stuff".  The stools set by the back window to make room for the table that holds 2 heavy duty mixers.

  When I picture my mother, it is at this table.  When I remember the grandmothers, it is at their table.  Sadly when I am gone, this table will be sold at auction.  I do hope that it can go to a home where it can create memories for another family, but I have no faith in that.  I expect it will go to an antique shop and someone will take it home to add to their collection of antiques, but that is out of my grasp, isn't it?

For now, I shall use it as I have always used it and when I am done, it will become an item# on a list some where with no connection or memory of Kenny and Lou.  A "fine oak table with 4 matching chairs and 2 chairs in need of repair."  There will be no mention of the laughter, love and tears shared at the table.  No mention of the dreams conceived in the early morning hours or the frustrations voiced in the waning hours of the day.

Just an old oak table.

I have no waist.

This is nothing new.  When I weighed 98 pounds, I had a 29 inch waist.  Since then I have gained 40 pounds and my waist is 36 inches.  An hour glass figure was always something I longed for, but never achieved back in my younger days.  Mother was always the practical one.  She dismissed it as "So?" That did not seem to help much.

As I inch my way toward being an "octogenarian", I think I have finally come to grips with the fact that it really doesn't matter anymore.  Back in high school it seemed to matter.  Barbara was 36-24-36.  The rest of the girls were similar, but found it amusing that I was 32-29-34.  While they weighed in at higher numbers, I tipped the scales at 89 pounds. The boys found them fascinating; they found me strange.  The "in girls" tittered when the boys entered our realm.  While the girls seemed to accept me as I was, the boys were looking for boobs.

Irene had huge ones so she was a real hit.  Martha found boys stupid and she would rather play the piano.  I found boys strange creatures.  Then there was that the phenomenon of the changing voice that boys had to contend with that proved embarrassing to them!  One would be talking in a normal voice and then out would come a word in his little boy voice.  We would always laugh, but I am sure it was hard on them as the "tiny boobs" thing was to me.  Kids are cruel.

I started my high school years living with my grandmother and great grandmother, so by the time I got back to Nickerson, I entered high school as a Sophomore.  My class mates from grade school had new friends and I was the outsider.   We had a larger curriculum, and the teachers expected us to actually do our home work AND turn it in at the end of class or beginning if it was something we did at night.  I had a Speech class and it was always torture for me to stand in front of a room full of people and "defend my viewpoint" on one subject or another.  Algebra was like a foreign concept.  History was boring.  Chemistry was an accident waiting to happen in a beaker on my table.  So I started skipping class in my Junior year and by my Senior year I was a secret drinker.  I never graduated.  I did, later in life get my GED and went to Business College where I graduated Magna cum laude which helped not one iota in the restaurant business since I was a cook or waitress and not the owner.

I have 5 kids and my body has changed, but the hour glass figure that I so longed for is still not a reality.  I have developed a personality of sorts so, that is good.  At least I have friends.

So I guess the moral of this blog is "God don't make junk!"  It is not what is on the outside that matters.  He will judge me by the content of my heart and the deeds I have done.

I sure hope that is how it happens, cause life sure does get tediuos!

Money tied in the corner of a handkerchief.

I remember only snippets of life on the Stroh place because I was 6 years old when we left there, but I do remember my very first trip to the grocery store alone.  Looking back I realize it must have been 6 or seven blocks one way which would make it about a mile round trip.  Back in those days most errands were done without the benefit of a motor vehicle because if we had one we did not want to "wear it out" doing menial things like going to the grocery.

I remember mother placing some coins on top of the grocery list and tying  them into the corner of a tattered handkerchief.  That was what served as a coin purse back in the days of abject poverty.  I had walked to the store many times with mother and my sisters, but for some reason this would be my first trip alone.  I expect sister Dorothy was either newly born or about to be and momma needed something from the store for supper.

I clutched the handkerchief  in my little fist and began the journey.  I was familiar with our long driveway so that was no problem.  Jake and I ran up and down it many times barefoot in the soft, silty black dirt.  It was under the tree at the start of the driveway that Donna had gotten a turtle latched on to her finger, but I think I told you about that!  What lay ahead was a long block before I got to Main Street where I would be safe.

I entered that block very slowly because on the right side was a big black cow (which was no doubt a bull) that looked at me with huge black eyes.  He watched my slow progress as I never took my eyes off of him for fear he would jump the fence and eat me.  His horns were long and I knew he was going to be there when I came back so I did not want to make him mad.  I did not see his teeth, but I knew he had them because he was chewing.  I was flooded with relief  when I reached the end of his fence and safety!

The next block had 3 houses before I got to Main Street.  I walked quietly and slowly in case there was a mean dog that wanted to eat me.  As I recall there was not and I reached the safety of Main Street.  Why I thought I would be safe on Main Street is beyond me because I still had the railroad tracks to cross, but Main Street and the Nickerson High School was a beacon to me.  With the giant cow and his big teeth behind me I breathed a sigh of relief, and turned right onto Main Street.  Two blocks passed without incident and there was no train.  I was almost there!

Arriving at the downtown area which was 2 blocks long was monumental to me!  I was only 2 blocks from my goal!  I remember looking in the window at the Library and seeing all the books.  Then Corrington Dry Goods had a dress in the window that I knew my mother would never own.  Then the jail which I walked past very quickly lest a bad guy grab me.  The sheriff was on his chair in front of the door.  He had the chair leaned back against the door and was sound asleep.  The bank was next and then Berridge IGA, but I was going to Flemings.  The drug store was on the corner and across the street I reached Flemings Grocery.  

I handed the handkerchief to the lady at the counter like mother had told me to do.  She opened it and went to fetch the items.  Seems like it was a loaf of bread, a piece of suet, and a portion of butter.  She handed me the parcel with the now empty handkerchief, smiled and I left the store.  My job was almost over!  

The trip home was uneventful until I reached the railroad track.  I saw the arms go down on the crossing and I knew the train was coming!  If I hurried I could make it, but fear froze me in place and I waited by the grain elevator until until the train lumbered past and the arms were once more raised.  Then I waited a little longer just to be sure it was not coming back.  And I still had the giant cow to pass.

I left Main Street and walked as quietly as possible, but that damn cow had supersonic hearing and when I reached his fence I was scared shitless to see that he was looking right at me.  He was waiting.  My mind raced for another way home, but there was nothing coming to mind.  He looked at me and chewed something that I would learn later was a cud.  He never took his eyes off me and after a time I knew I had to go past him again.  Every watch something move so slowly that you never really detected  movement?  That was me!  Looking back and watching this is slow motion from the cows perspective, I am pretty sure he was laughing his ass off, if cows laugh!

When I reached the head of our driveway I broke into a dead run.  When I burst through the door and into my mothers arms I also burst into tears.  I was safe at home!  The mean cow had not eaten me!  The train had not run over me!  I had not been devoured by a vicious dog!  And best of all my mother was proud that I had gone to the store all alone and came home with exactly what she needed.  

I realize now that my mother had probably been more worried about me, then I was. It was my first tremulous step into being a responsible person, but it would not be my last.  Life would always hold challenges and I would always know that at the end of the task my mother would be there with open arms and pride in her hazel eyes for me.

I have met many people through life who have cheered me on and celebrated my victories and wept at my failures, but none as special as the one I called  "Momma."

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!

Ragged 'n Ripe Peaches and Momma!

It did not happen often but it was always wonderful.  We watched the peach tree and waited for the peaches to drop.  It was only in the house at 709 North Strong Street that we had a peach tree.  Peaches have always been my favorite fruit.  A big, juicy dark red apple with four points on the bottom was always nice, but a rarity at our house.  Sometimes some one in town would have a plethora of apples and we would be sent to harvest the leftovers on the ground beneath the tree.  These were sorted, worms removed and the harvest made into apple butter or apple sauce which was basically the same thing.  Jars of apple sauce lined the shelves down in the root cellar.  Fried apples appeared regularly for supper, or dinner.  Chopped apples swam in oatmeal. To this day I do not eat an apple unless it is a dark red one with 4 points on the bottom and it is raw.

Pears are actually my favorite fruit, but I do not recall having them as a child.  Once when Duane and I were living in Liberal a man in the neighborhood came and told me I could harvest the pears on his big pear tree.  He furnished a ladder and I climbed up the tree and managed to harvest a big bushel basket.  Of course the kids were eating them almost as fast as I picked them, but I persevered and home we went.  I do not recall where the jars came from nor the rings and lids, but I did can them and processed them.  Sadly, the kids did not like them from the jar and when we moved the jars were left behind.  I assume some one did something with them.

Bananas were a rarity at the store, so pears, apples and peaches were what I grew up eating as far as fruit went.  Unless you want to count the Currants and wormy Mulberries. Oh, wait!  Every Christmas we each got an orange.  That was special only because it came once a year and beneath it was my Big Chief tablet and a brand new pencil.

However, my fondest memory in the whole world was when Momma turned the sign in the front window and the iceman would leave extra ice.  I knew what would happen next!  On the day the extra ice was left down in the root cellar, Momma would dig out the ice cream freezer.  It was washed and dried and assembled on the floor in the kitchen.  A can of "Ragged Ripe Peaches" would appear on the table.  Rudolph Reinke would appear with a jar of heavy cream.  The ice block would be brought up and Jake would use the ice pick to chip the ice so it would fit in the space between the metal bucket holding the elixir and the wooden outside.  Making ice cream was a family affair and probably the only time we could all refrain from fighting.  Momma cooked the ice cream until it thickened a bit and than poured it into the metal can.

Now,  after we had taken turns on the crank and it was getting hard to turn, the crank was taken off and the lid removed.  Momma had drained the Ragged n Ripe peaches and used the syrup to sweeten the ice cream.  The peaches were added to the mix and the lid returned until it would turn no more.  The crank was removed and the tub and ice cream was covered with a heavy wool quilt and left to "ripen".  

We were told to go outside and play.  Of course that did not happen because we knew that at some point momma would remove the quilt and pull the paddle out.  Of course there was always a fight over whose turn it was to "lick the paddle".  That was solved by each one of us taking a turn.  But the glorious part was when all the licking was over, supper eaten, and the baby in bed, momma brought out the "Ice cream bowls."  As I recall they were glass and were a rather amber color with raised flowers of some sort.  Today I recognize them as "Depression Glass" and they are rather pricey to buy, but then they were plain ice cream dishes. 

When we each had our bowl we were given the coup de gras (or something like that), which was a saltine cracker.  You heard me, a plain saltine cracker.  The saltiness of the cracker and the sweetness of the ice cream combined to make the best memory in the world to this skinny little girl from Nickerson, Kansas.  I will never think of my mother with out the taste of homemade peach ice cream.  

Over the course of the years on Strong Street, the peach tree became infested with bores.  The tree died, mother went to business school and got a job in Hutchinson, Kansas at some investment company.  Life was never the same after that.  We had running water and electricity and a car.  All the finery's life had to offer.  

I have three ice cream makers down stairs and before Covid became a part of our lives, I used to make ice cream at our church and have an open house.  The church wanted to make it a fund raiser, but I was just searching for a link back to my past. Life is sure funny, isn't it?  Peach ice cream was not a big hit at the ice cream socials and that kind of makes me sad.  

Ice Cream comes from the store and is in a box.   I do not think they even make peach ice cream, but I can taste it just like I was setting on the porch on Strong Street and mother was inside with dad.  I can see my sisters and brother and when I look into their eyes, I know the meaning of complete bliss!  

Nothing will ever take away my memories!    

Segregation is still alive and well in spite of it all.

 I just watched a segment on television about an old theater in some place down south.  Might have been Birmingham, Alabama.  There are two important facts here.  #1 is I am actually paying attention to the television and we are still having segregation problems and it is not just down south that it is happening.  

They were showing the history of the theater and explaining how it had been used as a headquarters for Ku Klux Klan meetings.  They gave the history to explain why the theater was the prime place for a museum to replace the KKK.  I am old enough that I can remember back when "night riders" interacted with black people in such a way that occasionally the black person would not return home in the same condition they left in.  This was acceptable behavior back when I was a kid growing up in Nickerson, Kansas.  I expect that the city of Nickerson could build their own museum, but not thinking they are going to do that!

I have very vague memories of my mom and dad having hushed conversations, before he would leave the house for an unknown destination.  When we got up the next morning for school he would still be asleep.  Hindsight is such a much better vision then living in the present!  We would hear hushed conversations in the school yard that abruptly ceased when we came near.  Guess this was something only the older kids were privy to.  

There were no Mexicans in our town.  No blacks.  There was a family that lived in the boxcar down on the curve that we suspected were maybe Indians.  We learned later that the word was "Indeginous", but then they were Indians and they kept to themselves.  There was a father, mother and 3 daughters.  Once I went to their house out of curiosity.  The house was very neat and the mother did not talk at all.  The father just glared.  I never did that again!

After they had been there for what seemed like a long time, Eveline was allowed to attend school.  Granted, no one played with her, but by then we were out of the "playing" stage and into the "trying to learn something that would be meaningful in our future."  Mostly, that involved cooking or baking, or cleaning house.  Eveline did come to my home a time or two, but mother was quick to point out that she had "very long fingernails and God only knew where they had been" so we must never touch anything she had touched!    

I am happy to report that later in her life my, mother actually acknowledged that there were people in this  world who were not lily white like us.  There were things like gay people, Mexicans, and black people!  We further learned that they were human and as such deserved the same treatment as our white friends.  Now in all fairness, I have not been a citizen of Nickerson for over 65 years, but you should know that when I last cruised the streets I did not see anything but white, anglo saxon, protestants.  Sadly something else I did not see, was any new buildings or thriving businesses.  There were a couple run down looking trailer parks and lots of abandoned buildings up on Main Street.  Nickerson seemed to be a step back in time.  What does that tell you?

As for my life, I think I have come a long way.  I have had the pleasure of being grandmother and/or great grandmother to several mixed grand children both half black, half Indian, and a couple not sure of paternity.  Does this make me anything different than I was when I was a snot nosed kid in Nickerson?  I think not.

I wish the people who work so hard for a good life could have crossed my path way back when.  There is a song I used to sing in camp and never really knew what it stood for.  Let me just sing you a couple bars:

"Jesus loves the little children.  All the children of the world!  Red and yellow, black and white, All are precious in his sight! Jesus loves the children of the world!"

I hope I can remember that no matter where I wander and no matter where I roam, or who I meet in my life journeys that we are all children of God and as such are blessed by his goodness and help me to love my brother as myself.  And with that ,  I wish you all peace!

 

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?