Nellie Laine -- On Little Scraps of Paper: 2014

Old Bill

A Person from my childhood

Bill was the year around hired man on the ranch for about 15 years.

He was about the same age as Daddy but he seemed older.

He always wore bib overalls. Daddy wore levis.

He stuttered a bit when he got excited or had a drink or two.

Bill seemed to be quite content taking his meals with the family,

Sleeping in the two room bunk house

Which featured a wood burning stove

And a sink with a hand pump and an outhouse.

Bill worked hard and was steady and reliable.

He didn't have a car.

On Saturday a relative would come to the ranch to get him

And would bring him back on Sunday evening.

Bill never corrected me or my sister.

If he saw something amiss in our behavior

Or danger in our actions

He would tell Daddy but he never said anything to us.

Bill was a private person and we really didn't know much about him.

When he died in his room at a residential hotel

We leaned that he had never married

And that he had served in the Army during World War II

Going to Grandma's for Christmas

Going to Grandma’s for Christmas (1950’s)

It’s Christmas Eve. It’s Christmas Eve. We’re going to Grandma’s. We’ve had a nap although we were too excited to actually sleep. We’ve had baths and our hair is in curlers. Oh hurry, Daddy, hurry. Do the chores as fast as you can. Take your bath as fast as fast as can be. It’s Christmas Eve. It’s almost dark! It’s time to go to Grandma’s house.

When I was in grade school, we went to my Grandparents’ house in Torrington, Wyoming for Christmas. On the 24th Daddy would do the chores very early but it would always be dark when we left the ranch 10 miles south of Alliance. And, it was so dark. There were no mercury lights that come on automatically at dusk. Farmsteads were visible only if they happened to have a yard light on when we drove by. Leaving Alliance, there were a few street lights at Angora and a couple at the junction but then it would be very dark the rest of the way to Scottsbluff. There we would see Christmas trees in windows, street decorations and a few lighted decorations in yards. Then it would be pitch black again with our headlights throwing thin beams down the road ahead of us. The stars, if it wasn’t cloudy, were low and bright. We would sing Christmas Carols and I could gaze at the black sky and imagine how startling a sky full of angels would be.

We knew which small town was next and we watched eagerly for the lights of each. In Morrill there was a lighted Santa standing beside the chimney on a roadside roof that made us laugh and heightened our excitement because we were almost there. Only Henry and then we’d be in Wyoming!

We were always the last to arrive at Grandma’s. My cousins from California, if they came, would come a week early and the other ranch living cousins had other family members who would do the necessary chores so they could leave home right after lunch or even earlier.

December 24^th is my sister’s birthday so as soon as we had been greeted, we would have her “birthday party.” After she had blown out the candles, we’d eat supper having her cake for dessert. While the women washed the dishes, we children put on our good clothes and the men arranged the chairs in the family room and made sure that the fire in the fireplace would last through the evening.

Then we opened presents. My uncles exchanged the same gifts year after year. I suspected that they really were the same gifts that were just put away with the Christmas decorations. One was a coconut with a handkerchief tied around the “face” and the other was a bag of nuts and bolts. Grandma and Granddad’s gifts almost always included new pajamas or slippers or a robe for each of us cousins. After the presents we talked and played with new toys or games and had snacks and sometimes some of the grown-ups would go to church. One by one we kids would go change into our nightwear and then clutching a favorite new gift we would snuggle together in the warmth of the fireplace and the soft lights of the Christmas tree and fall asleep on the family room floor.

After a big dinner on Christmas Day, we would return to our house. We could never spot the Santa on the roof in the daytime and coming from the other direction. This was just an ordinary, long drive home. Only the Christmas Eve drive in the dark was magical.

My Place

In the bedroom of my childhood

with the twin beds, each next to a window,

two small dressers and two yellow chairs from Mexico,

I breathe in the fresh air because the windows are open to catch the evening breezes.

I think of summer and freedom when I remember our room and its ceiling papered with yellow roses, where my sister and I dreamed of these days when we are “grown up.”

(excerpted from Class Exercises)

I Am the One

I Am the One

I am the one sobbing uncontrollably, collapsed in a crumpled heap on the hospital bed. I am the one with an empty womb and empty arms.

I am the one who saw the fleeting look of total despair in my husband's eyes as he cradled me in his arms and we sobbed together.

I am the one who watched the sorrow wash over my parents as they learned that their first grandchild had lived only 15 hours.

I am the one who saw the clenched fists buried into the mattress to keep from swinging them at the priest who said our baby died because I married out of the church.

I am the one who wept when a baby cried in church or the grocery store. I am the one who struggled to answer my little brother's questions about babies in heaven.

I am the one who found the article on new adoption policies and kept it open in my desk drawer to revive hope on long lonely days.

I am the one who felt the faint stirring of new life. I am the one who awakened from the anesthetic and looked into my husband's laughing eyes and heard his gentle words, “It's another boy and he can cry.”

I am the one sitting carefully in the hospital bed, praising God as tears of joy splash gently on our newborn son.

(from Class Exercises)

The Funniest Thing I Never Saw

The Funniest Thing I Never Saw

When my brother, Roger, was about 10 years old he had two best friends. Copper was a golden Labrador mix dog and Brighty was a donkey. In the summer they spent all day every day together. They were in the Heritage Days parade dressed as a prospector with his donkey and dog. There was a picture in the newspaper of Roger sharing his ice cream bar participation “prize” with Copper. The three of them roamed all over the ranch together.

Roger spent hours and hours teaching Copper and Brighty tricks. The best one was Copper jumping onto Brighty and riding double with Roger. It was quite a trick because Roger not only had to teach Copper to jump up but he had to teach Brigthy to let Copper get on his back. They practiced it over and over and over.

One day Daddy needed help moving some cows from one pasture to another. Brighty was no good at herding cows. Donkeys can’t (or won’t) turn fast enough to make a cow turn around. Besides the cows didn’t like him so Roger rode a horse named Pally. Pally was quite a bit taller than Brighty. Copper went along just because Copper always went wherever Roger went.

One big cow decided she didn’t like that dog so close to her calf. She started to chase Copper. Copper, of course, ran to Roger for protection and TRIED TO JUMP UP ON PALLY. Pally was too tall for Copper to get on and he wanted no part of a dog on his back anyway so he jumped away. The cow was chasing Copper and Copper was trying to jump up on Pally and Pally was jumping away from Copper and Roger was trying to stay on Pally and chase the cow away from Copper. Finally, Daddy and Jim (the hired man) were able to stop laughing long enough to chase the cow back to her baby and Copper and Pally stopped jumping and Roger could catch his breath and they could continue to drive the cows to the other pasture. I wish I had seen it. It must have been quite a Wild West show.

The Year the Focus Shifted

The temperature hovered around 20^obelow zero on December 20 when Donna left the ranch south of town to go to work. A thaw a couple of weeks earlier followed by the bitter cold had left deep frozen ruts in the gravel road making the daily trip to town and back again quite treacherous. Whether she was going a little too fast or was momentarily distracted or it was inevitable, Donna hit a rut at the wrong angle and her car flipped into the ditch.

She was NOT knocked out and was able to crawl out of the car. She made her way to a neighbor’s house about 200 yards down the road. No one answered her knocking! However, the back door was not locked and she went in. She was able to call 9-1-1. (In 1983, cell phones were unknown and country dwellers usually left their back door unlocked!) Then she lost consciousness.

The calls went out, “Donna rolled her car. She’s in the hospital.”

Suddenly, my screaming “to do” list faded into oblivion. My worries over the budget were overwhelmed by concern for Donna. Noisy teenagers, home from school, were strangely quiet after hearing the news. Each going off silently to homework or chores. Supper grace was not for food but for Donna. The sense that our family circle had a dent in it made those gathered around the table a little closer.

Later, another call came. “Nothing is broken. She’s badly bruised but should be ok.”

My thoughts did not go back to the “to do” list or the budget concerns, but stayed in the mellow warmth of the real importance of holiday celebrations. God sent His son into a family! The family is the touchstone.

Donna was in the hospital until the 24^th. The family had all gathered at the ranch by then. She was stiff and in considerable pain and we were all very solicitous. Because the five steps into the house were difficult, a roll-away was set up for her near the Christmas tree. Traditionally the grandchildren rolled out sleeping bags on the living room floor and whispered and giggled into the midnight hours. This night they went quietly to sleep to avoid disturbing Aunt Donna. Always one to pick up on the drama of any situation, Donna presided over the gift opening Christmas morning propped up on pillows in her bed by the tree. Then, so she wouldn’t get too full of herself (my opinion), as the rest of family went off to get the day started, we heard a squeal and then a crash. Rushing back to the living room, we found Donna in her bed with the Christmas tree on top of her.

“I could see it coming but I couldn’t move out of the way.” Unfortunately, no one got a picture of Donna, bruised, battered, and decorated but we remember the year the focus shifted.

We Needed a Christmas Tree

I was in upper elementary or early high school the Christmas we “needed” a Christmas Tree. Daddy picked Carol and me up at St. Agnes. Christmas vacation had begun and we were excited! Two weeks of playing with our pets, of no homework, of reading what and where we wanted to.

Mother had sent a list of course, so Daddy dropped us and the list at Safeway while he went to do something else then picked us up and we went home to the ranch.

At home we carried the groceries into the house and Daddy returned to the car. When he came in with a tree, Mother started to protest but Daddy put his index finger to his lips and nothing else was said.

Looking back, I can see that Irish optimism had trumped German pragmatism. Daddy's index finger to lips was not so much “don't talk” as it was “it'll be alright.”

Mother had probably decided that we didn't need a tree. We would be spending Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day with our grandparents where there was sure to be a large tree elegantly decorated. Cattle prices had probably been low and she was in penny pinching mode. And, she didn't like the mess.

But, Daddy had little girls who needed the sense of family togetherness as we decorated. Who needed the creativity of decorating a tree just so and the awe of viewing our creation in the darkened living room and running outside to see if the lights shone through the windows. Daddy's girls needed imagination and flights of fancy and Christmas dreams.

We needed a Christmas Tree.

Boarding at St. Agnes

Background: St. Agnes Academy was established in 1908 as a Catholic High School for girls only. There were 89 day students and 1 boarder. By Christmas there were 19 boarders. The first graduating class was in 1911. Boy day students were admitted in 1925. I’m not sure when the elementary school was begun or when boys (elementary only) were accepted as boarders.

I began boarding at St. Agnes in second grade (1948-49). There were 27 in second grade. I think 6 were boarders.

These are some of my memories about boarding at St. Agnes. Our day began at 6:30 when Sister turned on the lights in the little girls dormitory. The dormitory had about 20 beds in two rows. Each had a chair and a night stand beside it. I can’t remember where our closets were but we had a row of sinks on the west wall and windows on the east. I had always had a window beside my bed so the bed in the middle of the room was a bit disconcerting. We had 30 minutes to get up, get washed and brushed, get dressed and make our beds. Usually Sister French-braided 3 or 4 heads of hair as she kept everyone moving so that we were all ready to march two flights downstairs for Mass at 7:00.

After Mass we went downstairs to the basement for breakfast. Tables were assigned. Usually there were two high school girls and 4 elementary boys and girls. Some of the high school girls were very bossy and I hated being assigned to their tables. Others were very kind and are friends to this day.

After breakfast we returned to the dorm in case we hadn’t gotten everything ship shape before Mass and then went to our classrooms. Primary grades were on the first floor and upper elementary on the second. The boarders had lunch in the dining room. There was no hot lunch program for the day students and I don’t remember that they brought their lunches to the dining room. I think that they ate in the class rooms or on the enclosed porch if they brought their lunches.

There was a little store on the second floor where we could buy school supplies or candy. It was usually open for the day students before school and for the boarders on Monday after school. After school we could change from our uniforms into everyday dresses and sometimes I took my boots so I could change out of the required saddle shoes. We usually had a light snack immediately after school and then we could play on the playground or in the basement playroom until 5:00. We also had the opportunity to learn to knit, crochet or embroider during this time. At 5:00, everyone had study hall or music practice. Music lessons were also given at 5:00.

We had supper at 6:00 and a bit of play time after supper. There was another study hall at 7:00. The elementary boarders went upstairs at 7:45. There were 5 bathtubs and the little girls had to get their baths taken AND THE TUB CLEANED before the big girls came up at 8:15. Our lights were out at 8:30.

Daddy Brought the Groceries Home

Bringing the Groceries Home

Daddy had gone to town. He was kind of late coming home. It was already dark when we heard the pickup rumble down the lane and stop in front of the house. When he came in carrying a box of groceries, Mother said, “Didn't you get . . . ?” Daddy sh-sh-sh'd her and set the box on the floor.

There was something alive in the box! Daddy lifted the flap. There, to my delight, was a puppy among the canned goods. Although, she was a rust colored Cocker Spaniel just a couple of months old, I named her Dusty. She had short legs and long ears and really looked funny trailing after Daddy's coyote hounds. She and I were good friends for many years.

When she got a little older, she really wanted to be a mother. Whenever any new animal was born, Dusty was there in the way. The hens and cats were very much afraid to have her around their babies and the cows and pigs angrily chased her away. The horses were a little more tolerant and when my second baby sister came home from the hospital, my parents folded up the legs on the baby basket because they were afraid Dusty would tip it over trying to see the baby. She would sit for hours just watching the baby and would bark softly if the baby cried for more than a few seconds without a parental response..

Dusty's funniest experience with this heightened maternal instinct occurred when a sow farrowed beside a haystack about a quarter mile from the ranch yard. Daddy took an old washtub in the pickup and gathered up the piglets. With the tub in the back of the pickup, he drove slowly to the ranch yard hoping that the sow would follow. She didn't so he left the tub of piglets in the pen and walked to drive the sow home. Seeing this prime opportunity, Dusty got into the tub with the piglets. When the sow saw that, she went berserk. Dusty sat in the tub and barked as the sow charged the tub repeatedly while Daddy was trying to lift Dusty out of the tub and dodge the charges of the sow and yelling at us to stay back so the sow wouldn't charge us. Finally, he succeeded in snatching Dusty out of the tub. After the sow had calmed somewhat he was able to lift the very shaken piglets out of the tub so the sow could nuzzle and nurse them. Dusty was also shaken and avoided the pig pen for several days.

Eventually, Dusty had a puppy and her “mid-wife” interest waned.

Years later when my sister was trying to help Mother remember pieces of her life, she asked why we had Cocker Spaniels as their ears were sandburr magnets and they were no good at all either for coyote hunting or cattle work. Mother replied, “It wasn't my idea.”

Weather? What Weather?

Written July 3, 2012

We've been having a stretch of very hot weather too soon. This, and the fact that Daddy's birthday was July 9, have brought him to mind many times the past couple of weeks.

Except for the first two or three and the last one of his almost 96 years, Daddy had animals that depended on him for their daily food and water. And, he depended on them for his lively hood. That meant that he went out in the blizzard to feed them and sweltered in the hayfield to provide the winter feed. The weather was irrelevant to the task at hand. He went out in whatever weather EVERY day.

Daddy was very aware of the weather and he prepared for it. Hay was stacked as close as possible to where the cows would be. The haymow was filled to capacity so the horses could be fed quickly on winter mornings giving them the energy to pull the sled full of hay for the cattle. If it looked like there would be a big storm coming in, he might feed a double load. He built windbreaks in the winter pastures so the cattle could find shelter. And, he bought 100 lbs. of beans every fall so his family and hired men would be fed.

And, he dressed for the weather. Long underwear, levis, coveralls, cap with ear flaps, scarf. He didn't care what he looked like.

But it was the summer weather that really taxed him. The hot, dry, windy days of late July and early August when he worked from sun up to sun down in the heat took a toll. He would dress for the sun -- levis, long sleeved shirt, wide brimmed hat, gloves. But he would sweat profusely and his armpits would scald. He would eat extra salt and always carried a water jug. And, every evening he would all but collapse as soon as supper was over and necessary preparations made for the next day. And, his usual optimistic and fun loving spirit would drag.

After he retired and moved to town, he still had horses to feed and water every day. His winter habits didn't change that much. He made sure he had feed on hand and he dressed for the cold and didn't care what he looked like. But he let Mother buy the beans a pound at a time. And, he waited until the sun was up to begin the day.

In the summer, we would often find him sitting in the yard in his levis, long sleeved shirt and wide brimmed hat enjoying the SHADE!

Moving from the OLO

Moving from the O-L-O

May 15-25,1947

(Written from what Donna and I remember Daddy telling us and memories shared by Bob Burgess who was one of the cowboys)

Daddy's dream was about to be a reality. After years of working as a hired man or leasing ranches, he was buying a ranch of his own. His years at the Cruthers, Lotspiech, Buck and other places had allowed him to build up his cow herd and now he was buying the “Smith” place.

The Buck place north of Hyannis and the Smith place south of Alliance were about 50 miles apart as the crow flies and that's how they moved the cattle. Daddy had 300 head of cows with young calves plus about 200 on shares with Manning/Finnegan and 30 horses including draft horses, mares and colts and saddle horses.

They left the Buck place May 15^th. They only went a mile or two the first day. Jack Dubs drove a 6 head hitch on the feed sled loaded with camping supplies and food for men and animals. Jack did the cooking. Blackie Neumeyer was the horse wrangler. Bar Gordon, the stud, was tied to the sled so he wouldn't “wander off.” Stanley Burke, Bob Burgess and Daddy drove the cattle. Babe, Daddy's favorite horse and a natural cow horse, kept the stragglers moving without a rider. The drovers rode green broke broncs which were unpredictable. Bob said, “Barney said they needed to be ridden so we rode them.”

As Bob remembers they spent the first and second nights on land leased by Steve Sterns and the third night just south of Jess Lambert's place. He thinks there was another night before they camped on the Star Ranch but he can't remember for sure. (Bob wrote this information down for me in 2012.) They then stopped on the Herian ranch just east of Antioch and crossed the railroad and highway the next day. Bob thinks there was another night and then a night on a hillside where they could see the lights of Alliance. If Bob's memory is right it took them 9 days. He doesn't remember that they lost any calves and some of them were quite small and would ride on the sled occasionally.

One of the stories I remember Daddy telling was that Blackie was upset when Daddy told him to ride my horse, Buck. (I was 6. Buck was a kid's horse. Buck would let me put a bridle on him anywhere. A man had to fight him to lower his head so a bridle could be put on him.) Buck didn't get in a hurry for anything. Blackie complained so Daddy said he could ride Jug. Jug was a smaller draft horse that was also broke to ride. Jug went at a trot all day long. (I can remember hearing his harness jingle when he was on the hay rake.) Blackie rode Buck the rest of the way.

Daddy had had the ranch house moved across the valley so he would have the windbreak of the hills and the vista of the meadow. There was a small pond in front of the house. He made his dream come true.

I don't remember moving. Perhaps that was one of the few times Carol and I stayed with our grandparents. I do remember the delight of having a flush toilet and electric lights like Grandma had.

Icicles Hung Neatly on the Tree

Christmas Memory: Icicles Hung Neatly on the Tree

Rick was not quite eight when he left South Korea to join his adoptive family in the middle of the United States. Rick met this challenge with the in-your-face bravado and determination that had enabled him to survive thus far. He was visibly angry when he got off the plane because his coat zipper was stuck and he was not able to present himself as “perfect” for his new family. He reluctantly accepted his new Dad’s help to fix it and bravely took his new Mom’s hand as the family left the airport. It was November 16^th.

The adoption agency recommended that the newly adopted child be kept at home for at least six weeks so they could adjust to the immediate family members and routines before adding school regulations and classmates. Rick demanded to go to school with his brother and sisters. The primary teacher in the small country school was willing to let him join his sisters and he started to school after Thanksgiving -- just in time for Christmas program preparation.

His vocabulary of six English words expanded rapidly. Each day was a wonderful adventure of singing and art projects and putting up decorations at school. On the Saturday that we went to the nearby Christmas tree farm, cut a tree and brought it into the house, Rick nearly burst with excitement. He lustily sang O Christmas Tree (with at least two extra syllables in “Christmas”). He eagerly explored the composition of the tree, walked around it measuring it’s space in front of the window and chattered gaily in Korean.

Traditionally, Dad put the lights on. We all added decorations then we all started carefully placing icicles one by one on the lower branches and slowly moving up the tree. The kids -- and Mom -- would soon tire and wander off leaving Dad to watch the football game while placing icicles neatly on the tree.

While Rick might have understood the words, there was no way he could grasp the concept of icicles neatly on the tree. While Dad was sitting on the floor adding icicles one by one, Rick pulled a stool up to the other side of the tree so he could come closer to the top and began gleefully throwing handfuls of icicles on the tree. There have been more than 30 trees since then and with each one we remember Rick’s first Christmas and the beautiful tree with great clumps of icicles reflected in his shining eyes. And, sometime along the way, we quit using icicles on our trees.

My First Horse

My First Horse

I know I rode horseback before I walked and probably before I could sit as my parents were ranchers. However, I got my first horse when I was about 5. He was a small, black-brown Morgan we called Morg.

Now I may have wanted a horse but Morg did not want a girl. In my memory, all these incidents happened in the first week of our relationship but they probably occurred over a longer period of time.

Morg obviously did not want me to ride him. I rode while Daddy was harnessing or un- harnessing his team or refilling his fencing cart or doing other light chores in the barnyard so he was keeping an eye on us. He would holler at me to tell me what to do but Morg did what he wanted no matter how hard I tried to follow Daddy’s directions.

Whenever I would guide Morg near the barn or the tall corral fence, he tried to rub me off. Daddy would get on him and he would walk beside the barn and fence but when I was on him he would lean into them.

The tank serving the corral and the barnyard was set into the ground. The side in the corral was about 15” above the ground but the barnyard side was only about 6”. I rode Morg over to the tank so he could get a drink. He stepped in with both front feet and would not or could not back out. Daddy had to come to the rescue. I did not willingly give him the opportunity to get another drink although a couple of times he was stronger than I and again stepped in. He drank from the tank normally when Daddy was riding him or when he was loose.

The crowning indignity came after a heavy rain and I decided to ride Morg across the puddle in the barnyard. He decided to roll in it! I jumped off and was still holding the reins and screaming at the top of my lungs as he rolled over and over. Daddy stood in the barn door and laughed until his sides hurt.

I don’t remember when Morg left the ranch but, in the fall, when I started school, I had my second horse. Buck was a big buckskin who would put his head down so I could bridle him by myself. He went wherever I wanted him to and walked beside the barn without leaning and got a drink without soaking his feet. I rode him to Kindergarten. He was my younger sister’s first horse and the horse our city cousins rode and a part of our stable for many years.

Old Cowboys

OLD COWBOYS

(Reflections following the death of Henry Applegarth 1994)

We're running out of old cowboys.

Their numbers are diminishing fast.

Have we learned all they've had to teach us?

Can we teach our children without old cowboys?

Without preaching, without nagging

but by doing what cowboys do,

they've taught us so very much.

They've taught us the lessons of life.

From the old cowboys we've learned to

pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off and

get back in the saddle no matter how many times

we're bucked off.

We've learned to carry an extra loop because

sometimes it takes too long to rebuild.

We've learned to eat dirt, get a good night's sleep

and try again in the next go-round.

We've learned to laugh at our misses,

to argue the details, and always, always

to tell the story over and over

so we can keep the memories.

We've learned to be self sufficient but

to always lend a hand to a neighbor in need.

We've learned to tighten our belts and

hope for the prices to go up next year.

We've learned to accept the sunshine

--and the rain and the snow and the wind

because all are necessary for life.

We've learned so much from the old cowboys.

Those of us who are young cowboys,

who live in harmony with nature,

those of us who are ranchers and farmers

have ready access to the lessons of life.

But how do those of us who are engineers

or teachers, or lawyers, or carpenters,

we who work in factories and offices,

how do we pass on the lessons of life?

The lessons are the same whatever we do--

we pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off and

and try again no matter how many times

we've failed to mark.

We learn to laugh at our misses,

to argue the details, and always, always

to tell the story over and over

so we can keep the memories.

We tighten our belts and hope for the future.

We learn to accept the sunshine

--and the rain and the snow and the wind

because all are necessary for life.

And, whatever else we do,

We remember our old cowboys

-- with thanksgiving --

especially at Thanksgiving.

Reflections From the Empty Nest

Reflections from the Empty Nest

I was only half asleep waiting for the phone to ring, but the harshness of its ringing in the dark was startling and I leapt to answer it before it could ring again.

“Hello. McConnell’s”

“We’re here. Finally.”

“That’s good. Any problems?”

“No, just tired. Do you realize we put almost 1300 miles on Carrie’s car?”

“I know it’s a long way. We’re glad you came.”

“What do you think of Carrie?”

“Well, she’s awfully young but we like her. Just don’t get too serious until she’s finished high school. Ok?”

“Try not to. Well, I’m pretty tired. Carrie slept most of the way home and I had to drive. Good night.”

“Good night. Thanks for calling.”

As I crawled back into bed, Norm roused slightly and mumbled, “Rick?”

“Yes, they’re home ok.”

“Good. ‘Night again.” He pulled the covers over his head and went back to sleep.

I lay listening to the quiet house. The clock in the living room chimed midnight and the cats softly purred from the foot of the bed. Rick’s was the last call to tell us that all four children had returned safely to their own places. This was the first time they’d all been home since Linda has started college. And, somewhat surprisingly, I’ve found myself enjoying the empty nest. That’s a statement I wouldn’t have made last year – one I wouldn’t have even considered five years ago. Oh, I prepared for the empty nest. I worked at keeping the marriage relationship a step above the maternal relationships. I took a new job when Linda was a senior. And, shortly before I took her off to college, I began an afghan for each of them which gave them all a good laugh – they don’t expect me to finish them for at least 10 years.

I enjoyed my children when they were little. I liked the hurry flurry when they were in elementary school, taking swimming lessons, on ball teams, in 4-H. I even enjoyed most of their junior high years and, as they assumed independence in high school, I found four delightful young adult friends.

I miss each of them in a special way but after this Thanksgiving vacation with all of them home again, I’ve discovered that they no longer fit in the nest. Oh, there is enough space. Their rooms are still here and intact (except that Nils and Linda have taken their beds with them). It’s their lifestyles that no longer mesh with ours. They all live in different time zones and it is only partially geographical.

Nils, the oldest, works for the Immigration service in Lincoln. The job doesn’t actually use his BA in English but it pays his bills and he seems happy. Going to work at 7:00 a.m. would be nearly impossible for any of the others but he seems to like his schedule,

Jody, in her junior year in college in Colorado, made arrangements to spend two weeks of her Christmas break as a teacher’s aide here. There’s no doubt that she’s going to be a teacher, however, she has managed to avoid 8:00 a.m. classes yet another semester.

Rick went to visit a friend in Kansas after he finished his National Guard training last summer and is still there. Carrie is definitely part of the reason. He has a new job as a motel night clerk working from 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. He has always liked staying up all night and sleeping all day.

And, Linda, on her first visit home since starting college in Omaha, began getting phone calls two days before she got home so we didn’t see much of her. It sounds like she’s majoring in social activity. Hopefully, she’s studying some books too.

I miss them. I miss Nils’s wit and Jody’s company. I miss Rick’s zest and Linda’s music. I don’t miss waiting up for each of them to get home. I don’t miss juggling meals to fit around as many schedules as possible. And, their teen years were nothing compared to this vacation. With their current schedules, some one was sleeping and someone was starving all the time. No, the chicks no longer fit in the nest. I see the wisdom of the mother eagle that dismantles her nest to encourage the chicks to fly off. I’ll delight in my children coming home to visit. I’ll prepare their favorite meals and wash their dirty clothes but I don’t think I want any of them to get too comfortable here.

Tonight, they each called to tell us that they had made it safely to their own places. Tomorrow night they will report only to themselves. I like that idea. Just as there are stages of childhood, there are stages of motherhood. I enjoyed the responsibilities of active parenting for 23 years. Now, I kind of like this empty nest. I know its schedule. It is quiet, peaceful, comfortable.

A Pleasant Sunday Afternoon

My sister-in-law, Kathryn, and I are very good friends but we rarely have the time we’d like to just sit and visit. However, we fondly remember a pleasant Sunday afternoon in the early 1970’s that was idyllic. (The time frame is important to the story.)

Our family was visiting her family in Berthoud CO. We had eaten Sunday dinner and the dishes were in the dishwasher. Kathryn and I settled in the living room with our knitting and the guys and kids were going to play football in the church yard next door. Kathryn’s husband, Morris, checked the baseball playoff game on TV. His favorite team, the Cincinnati Reds, was playing and he would have liked to watch the game but his kids were there so a game of touch football took priority. My husband and children joined them.

Kathryn and I visited uninterrupted for a few minutes then her stepson came in to get a drink of water. He looked at the TV and said, “Why are you watching baseball? The Broncos are on.” And, he changed channels and checked the progress of the game before returning to the game outside.

A few minutes later Morris came in to check the baseball game. “Why are you watching football?” He changed the channel checked the progress of the game then returned to the game in the yard with Norm and the kids.

Then John came in again. “Why did you change channels?” And he changed back to the football game, checked the progress and returned to the family game in the church yard.

This scenario repeated itself for about 2 hours. The baseball game concluded and the football game was in the last quarter when the dads came in and collapsed on the couch and the kids needed a snack.

Kathryn and I had enjoyed an afternoon of conversation, made considerable progress on our knitting projects, and kept track of both the baseball and the football games and never once got up to change channels!

As a Hen

As a Hen Gathers Her Chicks

Matthew 23:37 O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing.

When Jesus spoke these words, His audience knew immediately what he was saying. They could easily conjure the mental picture because they had hens with chicks in their yards. While the words are timeless, too many people no longer have the daily contacts with nature that give substance to the word pictures Jesus often gave us. How many of you have actually watched a hen gather her chicks? The chicks can be scattered hither and yon, scratching for seeds, chasing bugs, whatever; but when danger approaches, the hen clucks a command and they all come running to the shelter of her wings. She tucks them under her and hunkers down to cover them completely.

Bitty was a small gray speckled Bantam hen. She was my pet. Each spring she would hide a nest somewhere away from the chicken house where no one would gather the eggs and she could hatch a brood of chicks. She would be gone for weeks but about the time I had become convinced that a coyote had gotten her, she would return to the chicken house trailed by a dozen or so fluffy chicks. I remember one year when we had a late spring blizzard. Spring blizzards in Nebraska are heavy, wet snows sometimes 8-10 inches deep. When Daddy went to care for his animals the morning after the blizzard, he heard muffled peeping coming from the other side of the corral fence. He had walked along the fence a couple of times before he spotted Bitty’s small grey head sticking out of the snow beside one of the railroad-tie posts in the sturdy fence. He dug out a space around her and gently lifted her. Ten toasty warm chicks were suddenly exposed to a blast of bright, chilly air. Bitty began clucking insistently. Even sitting in the snow beside her nest she was trying to tuck the confused chicks under her wings.

As a hen gathers her chicks . . . God calls us, commands us to come running to the protection of His wings. He longs to gather us, to protect us, to shelter us. As the storms swirl around us, we need to listen for and heed His call.

Lord, give us ears to hear and as we are sheltered, let us reach out to offer shelter to those who might not hear your call.

Turtle Eggs

Turtle Eggs

One warm, late spring morning, Daddy noticed that the gas truck driver had taken the pasture road to the neighbor’s and had gotten stuck. At dinner, he told my sister and me to ride over to the property line to make certain that the gate had been closed securely when he had finally gotten himself dug out of the soft sand.

As soon as the dishes had been done, we took off. We rode bareback as often as possible and since we knew we would be beside the fence so we could get back on if we had to close the gate, we galloped bareback out into the pasture.

It wasn’t hard to tell where the truck had been stuck. It probably had taken the driver twice as long to get out of the sand as it would have to drive the longer distance over the regular road. The gate had been closed securely but in the soft sand we saw some leathery eggs.

We jumped off our horses and gathered a dozen or so. We’d have pet turtles. We’d be able to show them off to our friends. We would have to catch bugs and things to feed them. We’d have to build a special pen for them so they wouldn’t escape but would still have space to move about.

Fortunately, I was wearing a kerchief so we fashioned a pouch to carry them home. Carol got on her horse and held the pouch while I got on mine. But I carried them home because I was older. No galloping now. I had to hold the pouch with one hand and the reins with the other.

When we got home, we found a pan and some screen. We put the eggs in the pan and covered them with sand. We put the screen over the top so the baby turtles wouldn’t crawl out. Then we put the pan on the cellar where it could absorb the morning sun. Then we set about designing a pen.

A few days later Mother came into the house from the back yard and said, quite sternly, “You take those baby snakes way out in the middle of the meadow and turn them loose NOW.”

Called to Write

(First written in 2001 -- revised in 2008)

The written word has always been important to me but it is only recently that I’ve really analyzed why. As a child I imagined my life as story. Whatever I was doing, I was, as it were, watching a story unfold. As a teenager, I had to write things down -- thoughts, ideas, plans, feelings, etc. – to make them my own.

I took a writing course from Children’s Literature Institute but struggled with both writing fiction and using too many words. (And, also the demands of family and business.) I won an essay contest and have had one short essay considered and another one published in an anthology so I know I can write. I just don’t know what to do with what I write.

Although I love the work I am doing now, a “temporary” working situation that has stretched over a year has so sapped my emotional strength that the creativity that usually just happened has dried up completely. Even to the point that I stopped writing stories for our grandchildren about childhood on the farm and ranch 50 years ago. Now, I feel that I am being called to write but I don’t know what.

Years ago my husband and I, either heard on the radio or read someplace, that one needs to approach God with open hands. The suggestion was with uplifted, open hands but we knew that our teen aged children would be absolutely mortified if we raised our hands during the offertory prayer in the front pew of our conservative Presbyterian church. We compromised by lifting our open hands to chest level signifying holding nothing back and accepting whatever God gives us.

I almost always write on the church bulletin. I write the names of those needing prayers during the week. I make notes of meetings we need to attend. I jot down thoughts on the sermon or Scripture to explore further. I even make to do lists. One Sunday as I stood for the offertory prayer and lifted my open hands, I heard, as clearly as I heard the Pastors prayer, a voice asking, “What is that in your hand?”

“My pen.”

“I want that, too.”

“It’s Yours, Lord.”

“Use it for Me.”

“Yes, but what do I write?”

This has happened twice in the last 3 years. The week following the latest incident, while helping a library patron look for a particular Chicken Soup book, I noticed that Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul was on order. I put my name on the reserve list. When it came, I read here and there and then read it straight through. Then I bought a copy for myself.

However, I’m still looking for the answer to what to do with what I write. (And, for the resolve to write regularly in spite of my creativity level.) I did write an article that had been fermenting for about 10 years and submitted it to Guideposts and thus began a “thanks but no thanks” folder. I want to do some rewrites of the submissions for the writing course and I want to resume work on the stories for our grandchildren. And, I keep wondering about the next step.

90th Birthday

Written for Daddy's 90th birthday July 9, 1999

Bernard was the name Andrew and Nellie Welch Applegarth gave to their third son. He took the name Thomas as a middle name when he was confirmed. But most everybody who has met him in his 90 years has known him as “Barney.”

When his Mother died when he was about 14, he assumed the protection and care of his younger brother and sister. He took this responsibility seriously even into adult hood.

Andy Applegarth and his boys were a crack hay crew and contracted haying in the sandhills between Bingham and Gordon. Barney’s skill with horses showed itself at a very early age and he contributed to his own support by breaking horses. Besides providing the necessities of life, this sideline also assured that he would always have a good horse to ride. Bronc riding and racing were natural to him.

He was the first of the Applegarth’s to finish high school. He was on the basketball team and they (Bingham) went to state all four years. This was before class divisions were established so they always faced much larger schools and were eliminated in the first round but for boys from the sandhills, the trip was exciting and they loved going to Lincoln to play that first game.

Barney worked on various ranches in the sandhills and continued to break horses and compete in rodeos on the side. One fall while he was away on a trail drive, a new teacher requested a change in her assigned board. Someone suggested that Barney was gone and she could stay there until another boarding situation could be found. June cleaned and rearranged the house but only stayed one night. Of course, when he came home Barney wondered who had rearranged his house. She’s been rearranging it for nearly 60 years.

In 1947, Barney realized a dream. He bought a ranch of his own. Leaving the familiar ranches of Cherry and Grant Counties, he moved his family, his horses and his cattle to the Smith ranch in Morrill County. There he raised Hereford cattle, thoroughbred horses and kids until his retirement into Alliance.

In his 90 years, he has seen many changes. From horse and buggy to jet planes, from horse drawn hay equipment to mammoth tractors, from sons and sons’ sons staying on the ranch to families scattered across the country, he has changed with the times. Always believing in education and teaching himself to do many things, he has adapted and learned from the changes he’s seen.

Happy Birthday !!

The Christmas of the Bobsled Run

It snowed before Thanksgiving. For the first time in many years, the annual Thanksgiving gathering was cancelled. There were several more snows between Thanksgiving and Christmas but by Christmas Eve, the major roads were dry and clear.

Our tradition at that time was to spend Christmas Eve in Broadwater with Norm’s family. We were living in Dawson County and had to start right after lunch to meet at the home of two elderly aunts. There we would share supper and a gift exchange. Then most of us would noisily walk the long block to the candlelight service at the Lutheran church. After church we would return to the Aunts’s house for cookies, coffee and ice cream bars.

Then the other families would return to their homes and we would travel about 30 miles up the Broadwater road to the home of my parents.

Even driving on the clear, dry Interstate, we could see that the snow cover was deeper the farther west we came however the secondary highways were also clear. We talked to several people at church to make sure the Broadwater Road was passable. We were assured that it was open all the way to Alliance but that there were some one way stretches.

It was about 10:00 p.m. when we left Broadwater. There were stars but no moon and our headlights cast a narrow beam into the darkness. As we came to the end of the graded road we encountered a “one way stretch.” The road was the width of the snowplow and the snow was piled 6-9’ high on either side. The rest of the way to my parents was a series of “one way stretches.” Every two or three miles, usually at the end of a ranch driveway, there was a wider area where two cars could pass. Had we met anyone, someone would have had to back a considerable distance so the two cars could pass.

The headlights created strange shadows as we passed between the high piles of snow. The children began to “see” images in the shadows. One thought he saw Santa, another saw the reindeer. None of them fell asleep as they usually did. It was a magical, beautiful drive.

It was later, after watching the Winter Olympics, that our older, silver tongued daughter dubbed the drive the Christmas of the bobsled run.

In The Chapel

IN THE CHAPEL

The chapel at Regional West Medical Center is not on any of the main hallways. I couldn’t find it on any of the signs. The rack labeled “Hospital Maps. Take One” was empty. But I knew there was a chapel and so I set off to find it. Finally, I spotted a sign “Chaplin” and next door was the chapel.

In the front is a stained glass wall. There is a small wooden altar with a wooden cross on it. There are about 20 chairs facing the front and some shelves or files in the back. I did not sit down but instead leaned against a small partition resembling an arch support.

I let the warm air and the diffused light envelope me. I poured out the fears and anxieties. I remembered the joys and the sorrows, the work and the fun, the triumphs and the defeats of the past 47 years. I named the plans we have made for the future. I recounted the many blessings because we’ve always tried to walk on God’s path.

In the deep, undisturbed silence of the little chapel, I felt God embrace me, I remembered the hardest prayer of all but the one that makes all the difference. Relinquishment. “Oh, dear Lord, as much as I love this man, I love You more. Thy will be done.”

I don’t know how long I stood there. Soon, “How Great Thou Art” came bubbling up from the depths of my being, followed immediately by “Amazing Grace.” I left the chapel totally surrounded by peace and calmness. I returned to ICU and the vigil at the bedside of my beloved, no longer afraid of what is happening because whatever is coming, God is already there. Our son says, “She’s stubborn.” The Doctor says, “No, she’s stoic. There’s a difference.” I prefer “serene.” Stubborn or stoic, my serenity comes from knowing that everything is in God’s control and that I am loved. And, God is good!

Mother's Wash Day

Mother’s Wash Day

Mother had an electric washer almost before she had electricity.

In 1947, my parents moved from a leased ranch north of Hyannis to their own ranch south of Alliance. This was their dream and they wanted it just right.

Daddy knew what he wanted and how to get it. He moved the ranch yard a couple of miles north of the previous owner’s location. He nestled the house and barnyard against the hills protecting it from the winter winds. He put picture windows in the house so the morning sun shone into the living room and the wide vistas of the meadow and the hills beyond were always present.

He dug a well on top of a small hill behind the house and put in a huge supply tank. We had running water and a real flush toilet! But the element that really excited Mother was the wind charger in the back yard producing 32 volt electricity. Two shelves of shiny glass batteries stored the electricity and a gasoline generator supplemented the wind charger on days that the wind didn’t blow or when there was a greater demand.

Mother snaked a hose from the hot water heater in the bathroom through the kitchen and out into the garage to fill the washer. The washer had a small electric motor that powered the agitator and the wringer. Two tubs on stands completed the set up.

Wash day was a whole DAY. As soon as the breakfast dishes were done, the washer was filled with hot water. The white clothes were washed first and run through the wringer into the first tub of rinse water filled with lukewarm water. And the colored clothes were put into the washer. The white clothes were moved into the final rinse of cold water. The colored clothes were moved to the first rinse and Daddy’s work clothes were put to soak in the washer. The white clothes were hung on the line and the colored clothes moved to the final rinse. Then it was time to get dinner on the table.

After dinner, the white clothes were brought into the house for folding and the colored clothes were hung out. The work clothes were removed from the washer. (Mother didn’t run the Levis through the wringer because they were too thick.) The washer was drained and the first rinse water was poured into the washer and hot water was added. The work clothes were returned to the washer. This water from the first washer full was the only water not reused. The second washer full and the rinse waters were siphoned onto the garden or the trees or lawn or even carried out to the chickens or the hogs.

The final rinse for the white and colored clothes became the first rinse for the work clothes and a partial tub of cold water was run for a final rinse. It was mid- afternoon when the work clothes finally made it to the clothes line.

Tools needed for washing included a sharp knife or a grater for cutting up the bars of soap and a long handled wooden spoon or a stick for fishing the clothes from the hot water so they could be run through the wringer.

Later Mother got a wood burning hot water heater. It looked like a small pot bellied stove but had a large tank on the back of it. Now the hose came from the outside hydrant into the garage to fill the tank. In the winter, this was really nice because it warmed the garage as it heated the water. However, in the summer, it made the garage almost unbearably hot. In addition, the engine to generate additional electricity almost always had to be started at some point on wash day. It was very noisy. In the summer, the overhead garage door could be opened but in the winter the noise made conversation impossible.

As the family grew, additional cycles were necessary and of course, the weather always complicated the procedure. This was Mother’s washday for 12 years. In 1959, my parents purchased a neighboring ranch and moved to that ranch house which connected to city electricity. In 1961, Mother got an automatic washer and dryer but for several years she still washed the work clothes in the old wringer washer.

Class Exercise #6

Class exercises #6

Confession letter

Dear Danny Stump,

I don't where you are or what you are doing or have done but I do hope the year you spent in Alliance and attending St. Agnes Academy was not the worst year of your life. I'm sorry that my insecurities and shyness made me ill every month after that first class meeting as Eighth Grade President. You, as Vice President, had to run every other meeting of the year because I was scared sick.

I hope that you have retired as the president of a major construction company or something and that you benefited from your experience the one year you lived in Alliance.

Sincerely,

Epitaphs

She's off on one last caper,

And took not a single piece of paper.

Do not weep for me –

I'm dancing with rhythm and grace

In the heavenly procession.

Do not weep for me –

I'm singing on key

In the great chorus.

Gone to her heavenly reward –

Left her whole paper hoard.

Class Exercise #5

CLASS EXERCISES #5

Have you ever?

Have you ever watched a life unravel?

You notice it first around the edges as details slip between the threads.

The checkbook no longer balances.

Accidents happen and there are no explanations.

Appointments are forgotten and recipes fail.

Familiar faces and their stories become strange.

Your loved one slowly fades away.

Connections are broken.

Hugs are exchanged without warmth.

Conversation is like weaving without a loom.

Mind and hands, once busy with plans and projects, now fidget with a string.

Have you ever watched a life unravel? I have. Alzheimer's is a ruthless ripper, tearing great holes in the fabric of life.

Dear Parent

Dear Mother,

I've often wondered how you really felt about sending your 7 year old off to boarding school. I was so homesick. Were you Helensick? The only thing I remember you saying was that you couldn't understand Carol because I had been talking for her.

Looking back, you always repressed emotions that you thought might cause a negative emotional reaction from others. This tendency came between us in several stages of my growing up. And, I hated it when you would say, “Don't feel that way.”

But, I found myself withdrawing from negative emotional encounters with my children. I wish we could have talked about it. But, we would have cried and in our lives, tears were reserved for happiness, pride or sentimental stories.

It's too late to talk but I'm beginning to understand. I love you and I know you loved me and that going off to boarding school was the best way for me to get a good education.

Advice