Mom's Mother

I mentioned my Mothers rough childhood. There is some bitterness here I need to get past, and would like to ignore. I've decided it's part of me and needs to be told. It was Mom's story, but, after Mom died, it became mine.

I can't remember any age when I didn't know there was something wrong between Mom and her Mother. After a visit from the woman, Mom would slip off alone and cry. Every single time. While her parents were visiting, Mom and Granddad would talk and laugh.....till Grandmom came into the room. Grandmom was usually criticizing or putting someone down. You couldn't please her. Even a little thing would set her off on some tirade. Example. The day they arrived and S didn't run to give her a hug quick enough. He was just a little thing. She started yelling that S didn't care enough about her and she told him that maybe she just wouldn't come back. S told her maybe he didn't care if she came back. Right then and there she told S that he would never be in her will. As if a small boy cares about that. It tickled Mom and Dad and was brought up several times over the years. She was always threatening to disinherit us. Like that should make us like her. It sounds like a sad old woman, who deserves sympathy. And, for years it was my goal to give her the benefit of the doubt. Expecially after I learned more about her own childhood. Grandmom was just two when her Father died and left her Mother with five small children. The youngest was an infant and then Grandmom and then the others were older. Since the youngest was too little to leave her Mother, and the older three were old enough to help, it was my Grandmother who was sent off to live with her Grandparents. But, not far away, she was just down the street from her family. I'm sure she grew up feeling unwanted and left out . And, I tried for most of my life to understand her. There was a reason for her "abandonment", but no reason for what she did to my Mother. Mom never told me too many details, but I learned bits and pieces as I grew up.

Mom shared the following story with me one day when I wouldn't let it drop. It upset her all over again to tell me. Mom and a cousin were visiting their Grandparents house. The two little girls were not yet in school. They snuck off to jump on a bed. It had a huge, high, heavy, solid carved wood headboard. While they were jumping, there was a horrid accident. The headboard came down and crushed Moms cousin. Grandmom actually blamed Mom and told her that she killed her cousin. Mom said it didn't end there. Her Mother continued to blame her for years. She even told Mom the wrong little girl died that day.

All of Moms friends were from families of six and more. That was common then. But, Mom was alone, and she grew up being told she wasn't wanted. It wasn't that she couldn't have more babies. She didn't want them. (Then I knew what Dad had meant when he called Granddad S a saint.) Dad said that a lot and at many different times. Mom and her Father had each other and they were very close. Mom said she couldn't have survived her childhood without him. And something Grandmom did to Granddad was another reason Mom never forgave her Mother.

Granddad loved race horses and horse racing. She caught him betting on a race one day. She had him committed as insane. It was explained to me that back then, you could do that. Then the one committed would have to go through three months of testing before they could be released. Grandmom even tried to do it again, but couldn't. He'd already proved he was not insane. Mom was very bitter about that episode. She believed Granddad should have committed Grandmom after that. Grandad S was easy going, and very accepting of anything life (or Grandmom) threw at him. My Fathers idea of a "SAINT"

I saw firsthand, when I was older, just how cruel Grandmom could be. Mom had been fighting Multiple Sclerosis and a fall had broken several of her ribs. Her Mother had come to "help". She did nothing to help, instead she had Mom waiting on her. Mom called me and I went up that weekend. Mom went to the couch to get some rest, and I was working on a meal in the kitchen. I heard my Mother cry out in pain, and I ran. There was my Grandmother sitting on my Mothers chest. I pulled my Grandmother up and she was laughing. She said she didn't know Mom was there and just wanted to sit down. Mom was curled on the couch crying in pain and her Mother was still laughing. I don't know of anything that hurts more than broken ribs. That was the very moment I stopped trying to give my Grandmother the benefit of the doubt. Grandmother tried to tell me Mom was faking the M.S. and the broken ribs. She said Mom just wanted attention, "Like she always does." Grandmom was still saying that when Granddad was diagnosed with Cancer and she expected Mom to help take care of him. Mom went, but not to help Grandmom. She needed to be with her Father. My Grandmother was the most selfish woman I've ever met in my life.

And she lived the longest. After Grandad died, Mom and Dad moved her to Marion because she never had a drivers license and Van Wert was too far away for them to help her. Dad would not let her live with them. Even though Mom felt it was her duty, she knew the M.S. was all she could handle. She would cry at the very idea of her Mother living with them.

Grandmom was very healthy and perfectly able to manage independently in the Seniour Center they moved her into. She had a four room apartment and the center had a bus service to take her shopping or to the Dr. And there was a cafeteria that served full meals three times a day downstairs. Even though she had a full kitchen of her own and could cook what she wanted, when she wanted. Granddad had left her independently wealthy, and when she sold the house in Van Wert, which Granddad built, Dad helped her invest the money. She was getting more in interest, pension and S.S. monthly then I was earning at my job. She was still living there when both of my parents were gone. When Mom died it became my duty to help her. Dad told her when Mom died that he wasn't related to her anymore. I lived one hour away, and I drove that hour every Wednesday to take her shopping and out to eat. By then, she didn't want to ride the bus anymore. She never gave me a dime for gas or offered to pay for the restaurants we went to. Till Dad went over and read her the riot act. He told her if she ran me off, she wouldn't have anyone to take care of her. She scolded me for bringing him into it, but after that she rotated with me and paid for the meal every other time. Still no mention of gas money.

Her eyes had gotten bad and eventually she gave me legal Power of Attorney. Each week I went over her accounts with her and wrote her checks. There was one bill for cataract surgery medication, a small amount she was suppose to pay. She insisted the insurance had to pay it all and refused to let me write the check. She also had glaucoma and her vision continued to deteriate. After months of dealing with the unpaid bill, I decided if she couldn't see, she'd never know and I just wrote the check. Wrong! She got the bank statement and she had no trouble reading it. When I got there that Wednesday, she was furious with me. Things quickly got worse after that. She no longer cared if she "ran me off" and had no one to take care of her. She would no longer go to the store with me or eat out. At first I thought this was ok. She would give me a list of what she wanted and send me off. If was easier on me to shop. Or so I thought. I quickly learned to go over the list with her before leaving, to check brands and sizes and every little detail. But, I never did please her. She would call me stupid and swear at me that I couldn't even follow directions. I saw exactly what Mom had described her life to be.

When she was in her ninties, she fell and broke her hip. S and I knew she couldn't go back to her apartment. S was always willing to support me, but avoided his Grandmother. (She had disinherited him many times by then. Actually, I told him one time that if there was any money left it should have gone to Mom and Mom would have wanted us both to have it. Not to worry, he was getting half after she was gone.) S helped me find an Assisted Living Nursing home. With a nurses station down the hall. They picked her up in a wheelchair and took her to every meal. (by the way, she quickly made enemies and no one would sit with her.) She wore a call button around her neck and drove the nurses crazy asking for services such as turning on or off a light or getting her a glass of water. When they told her she could do that herself, she was furious and complained to me about what she was paying. It was too much and they weren't earning it. The Home was expensive and for the first time she was spending more than her income. But, the capital was enough to keep her a long time.

The straw that broke this camels back came shortly after moving her into the assisted home. She still had her own living room and bed room with bath and half kitchen. I had to write a check for the deposit and the first months rent. There were expenses to settle at the old apartment. S did the moving and saved her that expense. We had it all ready and when she was released from the hospital after the broken hip surgery, she was taken to her new home. When she got that bank statement, she went crazy mad. I know a lot of old people deal with dementia, but her mind was sharp. Her only problem was the selfishness. I took out my accounts and the check book and tried to explain the expenses to her. She wouldn't have it. The next thing I knew, the nurses were in the room. She had pushed the call button. Many times. She was screaming at them to call the Police because I was stealing all her money. They tried to calm her down, but she was just getting madder. I asked them to call the manager, hoping she could explain the bills to Grandmom. I knew my Grandmother well enough to write down everything in an account book. Grocery receipts and cash spent, everything was on paper. Grandmother was still screaming for the police and there was a crowd in the doorway. The humiliation hit me and I broke down. The nurse took me away and gave me tea and spent awhile talking to me. The manager did manage to convince Grandmother that none of her money was in my possession. The woman never did even make a token apology to me. Now she was convinced that S and I had put her in the most expensive place in town. She wouldn't accept that others had a waiting list and would cost the same if we did move her. She was mad that management had taken my side and she wanted out of there. I was driving the one hour home in tears every week. One Wednesday the abuse overwhelmed me and I drove to my brothers house instead of going home. I had to wait till someone came home and he arrived first. I dumped all the paperwork on him and told him it was his turn. She lived another two years, to the age of 100 years, 2 months and 5 days. And, I never saw her once after I dumped her on S. Not once!

I will never understand how my sweet, caring, loving Mother could be related to her hate filled Mother. But, S is like Mom. After I abandoned Grandmother, I received a letter from her lawyer telling me I had been disinherited. When she died, S gave me half of what was left. He is the most wonderful brother and I am so lucky. And, life is easier for both of us since she is gone. I should feel guilty and bad about saying this, but I just don't care. I remember telling my son T one time that God must be giving Grandmom another chance by letting her live so long. Especially when I'd lost my wonderful parents so soon. I think even God gave up on Grandmom and she never did do anything for anyone. Except, I guess she did teach us how much selfishness, hatefulness and bitterness can hurt others. That is not the legacy I would want to leave.

Mom and Housekeeping

Well, I think the spoiled girl will divulge the secrets of my housekeeping skills, or lack thereof. Mom was a small town girl. Her Father was a Barber who retired to become the janiter at the local school. Then she married a herdsman farmer. She taught herself to garden and preserve. She learned to make butter from our own cream. All the things I grew up watching and helping her do, she taught herself. Mom was an only child when families were big. But, that is another story. What I'm getting at, is that she didn't teach me very much. It was Moms opinion that if a thing needed to be done, it would either come naturally, or if not, probably couldn't be taught anyway. My Mother was an original and she had some wonderful ideas. She believed that if an adult couldn't control their anger and yelled at a child, they had no right to expect the child to control anger and not yell back. Yelling was ok, but slapping (especially a face) was a capitol crime. Hitting was bad enough, but slapping was a slum action. Spanking was ok, but not in anger. If a child knew they were doing wrong, then they should expect punishment and should get it. Two or three swats was a spanking, more than that was beyond punishment. My friends came to my Mother to talk about things they couldn't say to their own Moms. Several times I got home to find a friend there, but they didn't come to see me. I remember the first time one of my friends heard Mom and I yelling at each other. Our anger disolved in laughter when Mom saw the expression on my friends face. When Mom told the friend why I was allowed to yell back, that expression was less afraid and more confused. I was told so many times how lucky I was to have my Mother. I had to agree, she was the boss, no doubt about it. But, I was always allowed to defend myself, and if I made a good case, she would compromise with me. I have even heard her say she was wrong. I was grounded one time when a class dance was coming up. I knew I deserved it and didn't even try to argue. But, I was on the entertainment committee. I had to take a record player and my 45's to school and then leave. Which I did. Much later, Mom told me she had forgotten the dance when she dished out the punishment and she felt bad about it. She said if I'd asked she would have backed down and let me go to the dance. It didn't even occur to me. She was always fair and as far as I was concerned, that was that.

Back to housework. She never taught me to cook or clean. She did teach me how to iron a shirt so I wouldn't re-wrinkle a part already ironed. For some reason that was important. She did try to teach me to sew. And, I proved her theory that it would either come naturally or I'd never learn. I still can't sew. Maybe that was when I first heard her theory. What I learned from her I learned just by watching her do it. The rest I learned by doing.

The doing started early because Mom lived so far from her parents. I was pretty young, maybe 11 or 12, when Mom went to Van Wert to take care of a sick parent. I'm not sure which one or why, I just remember she was gone and I was in charge of the house. It must have been hay baling time because there was help on the farm and I was expected to feed them dinner. Dad didn't think it was funny at the time, later I was teased a lot about this. Dad said it was almost dinner time (which on the farm meant noon) and he was getting hungry when he looked up to see me walking across another field wiht my berry picking pail. Wheich meant they weren't going to eat any time soon. Lesson number 1.....working men's tummys have their own clock. I needed to be reminded how long it took to fix a meal. And if I wanted to surprise everyone with berry pie, it should be done early. The next day I convinced my friend C to help me out. We didn't tell her Mother why she was visiting me. Or that we were alone. We had never gotten a whole meal for a crowd all by ourselves. But I needed to redeem myself for the previous days thrown together sandwiches that they got themselves while I picked berries. C and I managed pretty well. Except for the potatos. We planned to broil some steaks that were plentyful in the freezer. And the best thing with that was fried potatos. Besides we were afraid to make gravy, (which can't be made with broiled meat anyway) so that left out mashed potatos. I peeled an enormous bunch of potatos and C sliced them. While I worked on other things, C started the potatos in a big cast iron skillet. When it was time to serve, I asked C where the rest of the potatos were. I did know that fried potatos cooked down, but we didn't seem to have any left. There weren't enough potatos, but there was plenty of other food and the men were satisfied. When C and I cleaned up, I found potaots down in all four burners. On the floor beside the stove. We even found potatos in the drawer below the oven when we put the pans away. C and I thought that was funny. We did decide they got there when I got out another pan while she was cooking them. We thought we had them all cleaned up, but Mom found bits and pieces of fried potato when she got back home. She liked my friend C, and fried potatos hidden all over her kitchen struck her funny. We had to tell her everything we'd done.

She wasn't happy with me when she first got back home though. When she walked into the house, she said she stuck to the floor. (It wasn't that bad!) She was annoyed at me for not mopping. But, after hearing of our cooking "lessons" she did see the humor in it. And she did teach me to make gravy. Still, she made me mop the floor, several times, before she was satisfied. (F.Y.I., my friend C became a professional cook. A great one.)

I did learn to cook and I love to do it, so I can't be too bad. I make a great gravy too. Now that we aren't suppose to eat gravy. But I won't promise that you won't stick to my kitchen floor. I hate to clean, even though I prefer the way things look when they are clean. And it is easier now with the products available. Sometimes I just don't notice as soon as I could. If I can't see it, it must be ok. I don't like clutter though. Things should have a place and should be there. This is a problem. There aren't enough places for the things. In all these years of accumulating things, I don't know what to do with them. They each and every one have a purpose or a story and they can't be discarded. So the problem of keeping my things clean keeps getting to be a bigger problem. I love to cook, but shouldn't because of calories and middle age spread. All the wonderful old fashioned fried foods farmers loved and that I make so well are now a "No No". I hate to clean, but have acquired so many things that need to be cleaned. This is irony. But, on the plus side, my vision has gotten bad enough to help hide some of that dirty clutter, and so, things look ok to me. And, as long as I don't stick to the floor, it must be OK.

Dad's Army Buddy

Dad hadn't talked about the war or anyone who shared it with him. At any rate, not to me. So it was kinda surprising when Sid and Roz suddenly appeared in our lives.

I was standing with my friend C outside of a food tent at our local county fair. A man I'd never seen came up to me and asked if I knew a L---- D-----. He was asking me if I knew my Father. Out of a croud of people at the fair, he asked me. I suppose he had asked others before he got to me,but I was still amazed when he asked me. I told him I did know L.D., but before I could say L.D. was my father, he got all excited and asked if I could tell him how to find L. Dad and brother J were bringing stock from the fair we had just finished. I started to explain that he could find L at the cattle barn later. But, just then I could see our stock truck coming through the front gate. So I pointed to the truck and told this man he would find L in that truck. Without another word to me he took off running. C and I watched him jump up on the running board of the moving truck and scare J right up off of the seat. The truck was in a line of moveing vehicles and Dad couldn't stop. So the last I saw of them, this man was still riding on the running board and the truck went off behind the cattle barn. I don't know where Roz and their young son were, but they must have seen it all too. Later, when C and I went to the barn, they were all there. Sid saw me and got all excited and told Dad I was the one who pointed Dad out. It was quite a scene when they learned I was L. D's daughter. There were quite a few scenes with this couple. They were always excited and everything was enjoyed to the fullest. They had recently moved to Ohio and Sid started looking for Dad as soon as they settled in Toledo. They were the first Jewish couple I ever met, and I enjoyed being with them a lot. Sid and Dad talked and laughed about things they experienced in training and jumping out of planes and some of the men they knew. But, still the war stories were absent. They came to our farm several times after that. Everything they did turned into a circus. Even their card games were loud and roudy. Mom and Dad took a few weedends away from us to stay with them in Toledo. They always came home with laughter, and stories of the fun they had. Especially meeting the rest of Sid and Roz's families. I guess they were all like that.

Several times during my high school years, my parents put me on a Grey Hound Bus and I was able to spend weekends with Sid and Roz and Craig in Toledo at their home. These Jewish weekends are good memories. I would have to catch the bus immediately after school on Friday, so I would be in Toledo before sunset. At sunset they lit candles in a religious ceremony and their Holy Day started. On the weekends I spent with them, they did not take me to Tabernacle. But, they practiced their religion at home and answered my questions. Beside the obvious, the biggest difference I could see was the attention to what could be eaten and how it was fixed. I was amused to find Roz playing records to learn the Yiddish language. Their young son, Craig, was learning with her. They had advanced to a level that made it hard for me to follow the tapes. But, I loved the sound and rhythm of their lessons and wasn't bored at all to just listen. Wish I'd learned more.

Another part of my visit started after the next sunset when the Holy day ended. Then they would take Craig and I to the Toledo Zoo or the museum. I enjoyed both, but my favorite, by far, were the shopping trips Roz and I took. Shopping with Roz was a new experience for me. Mom and I never were much for shopping. We bought what we needed and went home. Maybe that comes from not having a lot of money to spend. Roz didn't spend a lot either, but we didn't go home soon. Roz would take me to a big department store, but then she would find a discount table and it would be surrounded by women fighting over things. One time I wanted to take shirts home to Dad and my brothers. Roz took off her coat and handed me her coat and pocket book and asked me what size and what color and told me to stay back. This little gutsy lady elbowed her way into the frackus and shirts were flying. Eventually she came back out with just what I asked for. Her hair was disheveled and one sleeve was pushed up past her elbow and one side of her blouse had come untucked. She would be laughing and I would fall under her spell all over again. She just pushed up the other sleeve and "went in" again two more times and I had shirts for each brother and Dad. I can't picture my Mother and I fighting for anything. Or having so much fun doing it. Shopping with Roz was a lot of fun. But, I knew I was as out of place in her city as she was on our farm.

Sid was a design engineer for Willis Jeep. They drove from Toledo to our farm one time in a pink jeep with a pink and white canvas top that had fringe all around it. Sid had designed the jeep for a resort in, I believe, Hawaii. It amused Dad to think of the pink jeep going down the interstate highway and then on our country roads. But, Sid was proud of his design and wanted to show it off. So Dad and Sid took the jeep out to show it to everyone Dad could think of. Then they came back and "field tested" it across our pastures.

Dad and Sid were such an odd mixture to be friends. Jew and Methodist; city and farm; engineer and farmer. But they kept in touch till my father died. Sid got my father interestd in the reunions of their army outfit and both couples started going to the reunions regularly. Each year in a different state. Even after Mom was too sick, Dad kept in touch and started going again after Mom died. I think Sid was good for my Father and I know they were good for me.

Gee, once again I'm seeing that S was right. I was spoiled. I don't believe either one of my brothers ever got on a Grey Hound bus to spend a weekend with Dad's Army Buddy. Were they just not interested, or did Dad keep them busy on the farm? Hhhmmm, I don't really want to know.

Still about Gypsy

Dad sent me and Gypsy back to the pasture one day to bring the two milk cows to the barn. It must have been spring when the new grass tempted the cattle to stay out in the pasture. Other wise the scoop of grain he gave to Jersey and Belle would have inticed them to the barn on their own. Gypsy and I cut the two cows out of the herd and took them to the barn. They next day we did the same. The following day, Gypsy brought the cows to the barn before it was time. He had been sharing the pasture with the cows. I guess Gypsy liked this new game, and he started bringing them to the barn several times a day. Then he must have decided cutting the milk cows out of the herd was too tame. He started choosing two or three other cows at a time to bring to the barn several times a day. That was too much for Dad and I had to start keeping Gypsy in a seperate pasture. Then I never knew if I would find my horse where I left him, or with the cattle or at the neighbors. The name fit, he was very much a gypsy. The only way I could be sure he'd stay put, was to lock him in the barn. But, that just seemed to be too cruel. As long as he didn't run Dads cattle all over the field, he could stay out and I think he got the idea. He was only allowed to cut cattle when one of us was riding him. When it was time to seperate calves from cows, he was very handy to have around. Calves are small and agile and very hard to seperate from their momma's. It use to take all of us running every which way to get the job done. Now, one person riding Gypsy and another at the pen, could do it. But, that was a good time to put on the saddle. If you've ever seen a cutting horse work you know how much fast maneuvering there is. Too much for us to stay on riding bareback. Gypsy loved doing it and once a calf was headed off and Gypsy knew which one, all the rider had to do was hang on.

We actually had two saddles. The western we always used when there was company to ride or we needed a saddle. We also had an english saddle. I have no idea now where it came from (Note to self....See if S or family know) The english saddle had a buckle cinch. It didn't fit Gypsy at all. You could put it on with extra blankets and if you didn't lean too far, too long, you could ride with it. Still, it had a big tendency to slide off the side. Gypsy was good about taking the saddle. He dind't puff up when you pulled the cinch on the western saddle. I never had to put my knee in his belly the way I did with Lady. Gypsy never seemed to care which way we rode him.

There was a day that, somehow, the saddle didn't get cinched tight. My friend P was there and she started across the pature while I stood at the barn door. I saw the saddle start to slip. Instead of getting off and tightening it, P turned Gypsy back toward me and urged him to hurry. When Gypsy started to trot, the saddle slid further. Still P hung on and urged Gypsy to go faster. Canter, then quickly into gallop and run. Poor confused Gypsy was trying to run with the saddle and P hanging on his side and P screaming for me. Gypsy was leaning one way and P was hanging the other way and in serious danger of sliding completely under him. Now I was running toward them to stop Gypsy before either one of them got hurt. Gypsy came right to me and stopped suddenly. The saddle made it's final slide underneath Gypsy and P finally let go. She landed on the ground under his belly and quickly crawled out. They were both safe and I could laugh. And laugh. P was trying to catch her breath and glaring at me. Which made me laugh harder. I told my horse what a good boy he was. Then, I told my friend that I'd never seen a more amazing job of riding in my life. She said something to the effect that she was glad I enjoyed it, because she was never getting on a horse again.

There was one other rider who did a lot of screaming from Gypsys back. Dad had an old army buddy and his family who visited a few times. They were "city folks through and through" and the wife told me she had never been on a horses back in her life. She wanted to know if she could just sit on Gypsy. So, I saddled him up and we went to the yard where our company was visiting with my folks. It took her husband and Dad both to get her up on Gypsys back. She was a small woman, but she was both afraid and wanting to do this. I was standing in front of Gypsy holding his nose, and he never flinched or sidestepped through the whole process. They got Roz up on Gypsys back and Dad put her feet in the stirrups. I still had the reins and she had a death grip on the saddle horn.. She was yelling at me not to move, she just wanted to sit there. Dad was talking to Roz and her husband was laughing at her. Slowly she relaxed a bit and settled down. Dad talked her into letting me walk around. Like a very small child, she hung on to the saddle horn and I took a few steps backward and Gypsy followed me. Roz started yelling. All she said, over and over, was "Glory." I stopped, but Roz said it was fun and I could walk a little more. I turned and started to lead Gypsy, and the yelling started again. "Glory, Glory,Glory." We stopped again and when I turned to look, Roz had the widest grin I'd ever seen. "Don't stop." she said. I led Gypsy around the yard and to the barn and back and Roz never stopped yelling, "Glory, Glory, Glory, Glory........."

Most of my own rides took us, Gypsy, Treasure and me, to the same spot. My favorite, out in the middle of no where place to hide from the boys and enjoy nature, with my two closest companions. I would go to the county line, then to the main highway, where I'd have to cross and then on to another township road that was more of a path through the woods than a road. I never, in over four years of riding saw a car or another person on that last road. Near the other end of the road was a stream and one of those big steel (Iron?) bridges that had beams rising high on each side. I'd get off, and Gypsy and Treasure would get drinks from the stream and I would just sit by the stream and daydream. I spent a lot of time there doing absolutely nothing. I don't suppose that would be possible nowadays. But, it never even occured to me to be afraid back then. Besides, I had my horse to escape on and a German Shepherd dog to protect me. Even my Mother didn't worry about me when Treasure was with me. And, no one ever asked me where I rode off to. Even when I was gone most of the day.

Can you picture it? Young girl with long hair pulled back and only the top half held with a rubber band. Usually in shorts and sneakers. With her horse and German Shepherd dog rambling down a hot dusty summertime road and singing at the top of her lungs, "They call the wind Mariah." Her horse giving an occasional stiff legged little jump to remind her who was in control and make her voice do a funny little stutter.

I can still see it and feel it and, "Lord, how I miss it."

It's a good thing I had this wonderfully perfect time in my life. Because the years since haven't been near as kind. Without those years of memories, I wonder who I would be now. Certainly not who I am.

Finding Gypsy

After we sold the horse Lady, I was anxious to replace her. I was 14 and I still wanted a horse. There was a farm just a few miles away that the school bus passed every day. There were several horses there and one of them kept catching my eye. I didn't even know if any of the horses were for sale, but I nagged at Dad till he took me over to ask. The one that I'd been watching turned out to be a two year old half broken stallion. They couldn't even catch him that day. We were told to come back the following weekend and they would have him in the barn so we could look at him. I was very surprised that Dad would even consider letting me have this young stallion. (S must be right. I was spoiled.)I'd been reading a book about Gypsies and when I watched this horse from the bus, I'd already named him. He was so full of energy and always on the move. I had no idea that the name would fit him so perfectly.

We took the saddle with us when we went back. Gypsy was waiting in the barn when we got there. He was as curious about me as I was of him. Dad checked him over real well and ran his hands along his back and up and down each leg. Gypsy was interested in all of this and I loved how he kept putting his muzzle against me and giving me little pushes. He let Dad put the saddle on his back and even though we'd been told he was only rough broke, he just seemed nervous. Dad rode him first and Gypsy didn't seem to know what was expected of him, but he was willing. I took my turn and I loved his mustang small size and eagerness. Dad asked me if I was sure and I knew I was already crazy about this animal. Dad told me to take him home. He made the deal while I was already headed home on the back of my new friend. Gypsy was a dark bay with black mane and tail and some white on his legs. I mentioned before that his eyes were different colors and this kept me from showing him in competition. Dad was sure he would be blind in one eye, but that proved wrong. He was beautifully muscled and strong and there wasn't a mean bone in his body. But, he was ornery. He liked to tease. I don't know what else to call it. He seemed to know when you relaxed and weren't paying attention and he would take two or three stiff legged little jumps to shake you up. He always came up to us, but if you had the bridle he would wait till you raised it and then back off a few steps and stay just out of reach. He could keep this up till you were upset and ready to give up. Then he would come to you and let you put on the bridle. I think he wanted the ride as much as we did. I had one coat with big buttons that Gypsy kept biting a big button off of. Then he'd spit it out and I'd pick it up and sew it back on. Then the next chance he got, he'd take the same button off again. Eventually there wasn't enough material left to sew the button back on. That was the only coat or button he ever did it to.

When my friend C.K.F., rode Gypsy he was always a gentleman. But, when another friend, S.S., would get in the saddle, Gypsy would take her to the nearest tree, lean into the tree against her leg and he would go around the tree several times. Once he'd accomplished this, he would let S.S. have her ride. He never did that to anyone else and I never knew why he did it to her. It would sure make her mad, and it was just like Gypsy was laughing at her. We always put the saddle on when company rode.

I decided if I learned to ride bareback, he wouldn't be able to surprise me with his stiff legged little jumps. I'd be able to feel his muscles first. Dad was working on an electric fence in a small corner of a pasture when I made up my mind to learn to ride through each of Gypsy's gaits. Anyone can stay on during a walk. But, a horse doesn't just go from walk to run. They walk, trot, canter and gallop first. These are called the horses gaits. Gypsy had a very rough trot. A trot consists of the horse using diagonal legs with a period when his whole body is off the ground. In other words, his right front leg and left hind leg are off the ground and then he bounces to the left front leg and right hind leg off the ground. This gives you a rocking bouncing movement. When he moves into a canter it's still a rocking movement but, he has three feet on the ground at a time and it's smoother. And each gait allows the horse to go faster. I had no trouble with riding the canter and gallop bareback, if I could get past the trot. With Dad in the pasture working on the fence and ready to give advice, I set out to learn to last past that trot. I don't know how many times I hit the ground that afternoon. Enough to keep my Father greatly amused. What was so funny to Dad was how I always landed. I wish I could have seen how it looked because when I hit the ground I was in front of Gypsy, face to face and he had to stop hard to keep from stepping on me. Every time. How do you sit on a horse and end up on the ground in front of him, nose to nose? I don't think I went over his head, it felt like I was falling off the side, but......... I did it the same way over and over. I think that more then my learning his trot, Gypsy learned to get past the trot and into his canter quicker. Anyway his favorite gait was a dead flat out run. And, it was smooth and glorious. I learned to wrap my hand in his mane till we were through the trot, then I could relax and just enjoy the ride. When Gypsy learned to jump, that was smooth too.

Mom was hanging wash on the line one day when my brother, J was on Gypsy in the field. I was talking to her and we were working on a sheet when Mom caught sight of J. She tensed up and told me she would never get use to one of her kids going that fast while bareback. Gypsy and J were on a dead run and the fence was coming up fast. Mom screamed, but those two took the fence in one smooth move. It was beautiful, but Mom was as white as the sheet we were hanging.

J had his bad fall when Mom and I were in Van Wert because of gall bladder surgery on Grandmom S. We were actually at the hospital when we got a phone call saying J had fallen off Gypsy and cracked his skull on the road. Mom was frantic with her Mother in surgery and J in a hospital two hours away. Granddad said I should stay to help Grandmom when she got home, and Mom should go. So I missed all the drama and don't know very much about it. When Mom came back for me, it was ok again and I didn't hear much about it. J had a lot of stitches in the back of his head, but he was fine. Those stitches left a big scar that was visable through his hair for the rest of his life.

We all had minor falls. I believe that the lessons from our Paratrooper Father when he had us jumping out of the haymow were probably why we weren't hurt worse. Except for J. Remember when I wondered if it was J who had been in the air when Mom screamed? (Learning to Fall posted on Jan. 20) We often teased J because he could get a concussion in a fall off a wagon, when S and I would only have a scrape or bruise. We rolled when J bounced.

S had the fall that made me mad. He had been at the farm where the bus driver and his family lived. You could go to the intersection north of us and then down their road, or you could take a shortcut where the railroad track cut off the corner. S had Gypsy with him and they were doing whatever they did, when S realized he was late getting home for chores. He not only took the shortcut, he ran Gypsy on the railroad track gravel. Remember those tracks were built up higher then the road or surrounding fields. S and Gypsy went down in the gravel and down that hill which was all gravel. When they finally came limping home, all I saw was my Gypsy's legs torn and shredded. I didn't even ask S how he was......I lit into him for hurting my horse. And, when I found out how it happened......I was the one mad as a Jessie. We talked about it on his last visit and it still makes me mad. And, S just laughed at me. Some things never change.

Haymow to Horse

I loved the haymow. It was U shaped, with the opening at the front of the barn where the big front doors were. The Tarzan rope hung from the peak of the roof over the center of the open area. We kept it pulled to one side or the other, so we could reach it to swing across to the other side. That rope was the first place we took new friends to play. I had a girlfriend named C.K.F. who was never afraid to swing, but she was afraid to let go. We would have to catch her again on the same side she started from. She kept trying, but she never did swing over and let go. If we missed catching her, she could lose momentum and end up hanging over the barn floor, which meant a 10 or 12 foot drop. Then we would have to hurry (though you would be surprised how long C could hang on) down to the barn floor to help break her fall. I never understood why she was less afraid of landing on the barn floor then landing in the other haymow. Except that we were there to catch her. C was always so full of laughter and we had so much fun. We still do, as we have remained close friends now for about 50 years. And, she is still just as much fun to be with.

Treasure hated being left on the barn floor when we played in the haymow. We were up there one day when Treasure showed up. We couldn't figure out how she got up there. So we climbed down the ladder that was flush and nailed to a support beam, and called to her. When she showed up below, she came from the back of the barn. So I climbed back up and called her and the boys followed her. She had used the hay feeder rack to climb up. Now she could be with us when we played up there. When we would swing from one side of the haymow to the other side, she would run around the U to be on the other side too.

The boys loved to move the straw bales around and make tunnels. Then Treasure would crawl through the tunnels with them. When we were younger, the boys had extensive tunnels all over the straw side of the haymow. It was almost dangerous to walk on the straw. You never knew if you would crash through into one of their tunnels. The hay side wasn't played in as much. Hay is coarser and has more thistles in it. And, since hay is food for stock, Dad wanted the hay left along. Sometimes we actually did what he wanted. Sometimes.

When the neighborhood boys became a nuisance, I would find some spot on the hay side to hide. Treasure and I would lie there quietly and I would daydream. I especially loved being in the haymow when rain was hitting the roof. What a perfect way to spend a lazy rainy afternoon. I often took a book with me to our haymow and Treasure would be with me as long as I stayed.

Of course all this hiding from the brothers and their friends was done before I got a horse. Or, at least before I got Gypsy. Once Gypsy and I were together, I didn't have to worry about hiding from the guys.

I talk about the boys, when actually there were two girls on the very next farm to the west of us. C.K. was one year younger than me and her sister, J.K. was a few years younger. They were both pretty and girly girls, where I was always the tomboy. The girls took dance lessons and helped in the house and never had chores or worked with their Dad or were in 4-H. We did get together, but not often. We just didn't have anything in common. C.K. had asthma and alergies and didn't spend much time outside. Then their Father bought them horses. Copper and Sport. I thought they would ride with me, but they never felt confident on their horses and would only ride in the pasture when their Dad was there. I got pretty bored with that real quick. But, my Gypsy was another matter. He kept jumping the fence and going over to visit. Gypsy spent more time with Copper and Sport than I did with the girls. I'd come home from school, get the bridle, and walk over. Then I'd have to wait till he'd let me catch him to ride back home.

I remember coming home from a double date one night. We'd already taken P, the other girl, home. Dad met us at the door, with Gypsy's bridle and told me to go get my horse. The fellows drove me over to the K farm and stayed while I walked up to Gypsy. He let me pet him and I thought he was going to behave himself. But, when I raised the bridle, he stepped back just out of reach. It was dark and late and the K's had already gone to bed and I wanted to catch Gypsy without waking them. I learned a lot about the guy I was dating just then. When Gypsy stayed just out of my reach, G must have thought he was going to impress me by catching my horse. Sure! Right! Yeah! Gypsy played with him while the other guy, who had been my friends date, and I stood back and watched him run himself ragged while Gypsy showed me what a fool this guy was. When Gypsy got tired of the game, he came over and lay his head on on my shoulder and let me know he was ready to go home.

We four had been dating awhile. They were the same two guys my friend P and I were dating when I took a bad fall off Gypsy. I'd stayed after school for a play rehersal. Chores took longer for some reason and I was running late. The weather had been bad for days and Gypsy had been penned in the barn too long. Dad told me I wasn't going on any date till I had exercised my horse. My bridle wasn't hanging where it belonged (must have been a brother who didn't put it back) and I didn't take time to hunt for it. I grabbed a rope and looped it around Gypsy's nose then under and up over his ears, pulled it through the loop under his head and set off bare back with just this rope halter. Gypsy had been cooped up too long and he wanted to run. I gave him plenty of slack and let him run. But, he didn't tire out as soon as I'd expected. We were coming to the main highway and the traffic was heavy. I knew he would run right out in the intersection and someone would hit us. Without a bridle and bit in his mouth, I couldn't stop him. In desperation I gave the rope a hard sudden jerk sideways and leaned the same way. It was just enough to throw him off balance and we hit the stop sign. He slid in the gravel and down we went. I didn't get my leg out of the way and he landed on me and we slid into the ditch. Gypsy struggled up out of the ditch, but I couldn't get up. My Gypsy was the only horse I ever knew who didn't head for the barn as soon as he was riderless. He stayed with me. We were still there when my three friends came looking for me. When I didn't come home and they came to pick me up for our date, Mom sent them off to find me. Gypsy was ok and the boys set me up on Gypsy's back and followed us home. Then W rubbed down Gypsy while the other two got me in the house. Nothing was broken, but my ankle was badly swollen and my whole right side wa scraped and bruised. That date turned into a game of scrabble while my leg was propped up. That is the ankle I still have trouble with. Like the old saying, "If I'd known I'd live so long, I'd have taken better care of myself." It's hard to believe that an injury from so long ago will come back to haunt you in the golden years. I feel every fall now a lot more than I did when I actually fell.

It's a wonder I lived to grow up.

A Bus Driver

Our first bus driver, at the hated school and the new school, lived just north of us on the next farm. He had two boys our ages and a little girl to young to be in our gang. (oops, I don't mean "gang" like the word is used today.) His name was Jim. Jim knew how to keep control on his bus. He had a red wire hanging loose under the console where we could all see it. Jim told us he could electricute any kid who didn't behave. But, actually when ever a fight did break out on his bus, Jim would pull over, off the road and put the boys out in the ditch to fight. And, he wouldn't let them stop till they were worn out. Jim never cared how late that made our bus, and it didn't matter if we were on our way to school or going back home. Of course this was in grade school and if the whole bus was tardy, the school couldn't hold it against each student. But when we were going home, and this was when most fights broke out, the parents worried when we didn't show up on time. And most farm kids had parents expecting help with chores. So not everyone appreciated Jims methods. Not because anyone was upset about their son coming home disheveled from a fight. The only problem was with us being late and the parents not being sure if we had been in an accident. I'm sure things would be different today. How many of todays parents would accept letting boys duke it out in a ditch? Our world has changed in so many ways, and I'm having trouble understanding a lot of it. Like spanking kids. Or letting them run all over an elder, verbally or physically. Don't get me started.....!!

Getting to school late one morning had nothing to do with the kids on the bus. We were on the short stretch of main highway on the way to that hated school, when we saw a toddler out in the cold in nothing but a diaper, walking along the highway. We weren't familiar with the families who lived in that area. Jim stopped the bus and picked up the child and then stopped at the nearest house. But, they didn't know the child. We drove to the next house, and again it wasn't his home. The nearest house behind us was more that a mile back. So Jim went on ahead to a house about a half mile down the road. Bingo, this time we were able to find his Mother. He had gone quite far for a little fellow. It reminded me of the time S was brought home by the partrolman. Living on a busy highway put this run-a-way in a lot more danger then S had been in. And when Jim took him to the door, his Mom was surprised. She hadn't even know he was gone. Jim was the kind who said what he thought and everyone on the bus was quiet while we listened to him tell that Mother just what he thought. After that, I was no longer afraid of his red wire, or that this man could electricute me.

Jim had been my bus driver several years, and we had played with his sons and been at his house, when I was feeling sad one day. I don't remember why, but I must have been pretty obvious. Jim was trying to cheer me up and I remember him telling me that whatever was bothering me couldn't be too bad, because I was, "the prettiest girl on Tobias Road." I'd never been told I was pretty before and I was so very excited. When I got home, I ran straight to Mom and told her, "Jim said I was the prettiest girl on Tobias Road." I will remember forever my Mothers response. With her hands on her hips, she told me. "LeeAnn, you are the ONLY girl on Tobias Road." I was crushed. Then Mom gave me a hug and sat me down and gave me the lecture about learning to be pretty on the inside. Outside "pretty" doesn't mean a thing and never lasts anyway and I'd better work on personality because I'd never be a "real beauty". I'm sure it was a good lesson, but I still thought I'd rather be the prettiest girl anywhere. She taught me a little poem and I can still say it almost 50 years later.

As a beauty, I am not a star.
There are others more handsome by far.
But my face, I don't mind it,
for I am behind it.
It's the people in front that I jar.
(Sorry, I can't name the Author)

Mom meant that as humorous and did assure me that I looked fine. Not ugly or even plain, just a nice average ok. I know now that she didn't want me to take looks seriously or ever be full of myself. I just still feel the lesson either came at the wrong time or was, maybe a bit harsh. I have had some compliments since, but my doubt leads me to wonder why they are saying it. What's the catch. Is someone saying something nice because they want something. Is there a hidden double meaning behind the words. I was in my 30's when I started hearing the word "pretty" more often. My conclusion wasn't that I'd become prettier. I decided that men had become more comfortable or relaxed about saying it. This is what still makes the most sense to me. I've never felt really good about myself and all my doubts take me right back to the day I went from being the prettiest girl on Tobias Road to being the ONLY girl on Tobias Road.

Please let me strongly advise against lessons of this kind. Build children up, but don't ever put them down to teach any lesson. Tell them about inner beauty and building a likable personality, but please be aware of how you do it. The lessons that hurt, last a lifetime.

But when they need it, one spank on the bottom is not a bad thing. Hugs and Love heal when they know they deserved it. Words can never be taken back.

Learning to Drive

The very first time I got in the drivers seat of our car, I wasn't big enough to see out. Dad and I had taken the car back to what we called "the grove". It was a small grove of old growth trees that Dad used to pasture the animals (both cows and hogs, never together) in occasionally. I'm sure it was because there was a water pump back there. It was across the road from the house and a source of water would be necessary if the stock couldn't come to the barn on their own. This was the only field used for pasture on that side of the road. It wasn't used often because it was quite a distance from the house. Which made it harder to keep the water tank full and to keep an eye on the stock. We had a cow due to calve soon and Dad just took me along to check on her. When we found her, she already had the calf. Dad wanted to bring cow and calf back to the barn, but that created a problem. The calf was newborn and couldn't make it all the way home. Dad's solution was to climb on the front hood/bumper of the car and hold the calf while I drove slowly enough for the cow to keep up. But, I'd never driven anything but the tractors before. He turned the car around, and left it facing the house in the middle of the road. He gave me a very brief talk on gear and peddle, it was an automatic shift, then he climbed up front with the calf on his lap and off we went with a bawling cow staying right beside him all the way. I did fine going straight down the road. When I got to our driveway, I stopped. But, Day yelled at me to turn the wheel and keep going. Like I said, I couldn't see anything but Dad sitting up high and the cow beside us. I turned the wheel and slowly started forward again. The cow was in the way and Dad was having trouble holding a struggeling calf. I didn't quite make it in the driveway. What I did do was manage to pin my father and the calf between the car and our mail box. I was going so slow that I was able to stop immediately. But I was all shook up. Dad was yelling for me to put the car in reverse......but, he hadn't told me how to do that. Luckily Mom heard him yelling and she came running. She climbed in the car, pushing me over all in one movement and saved Dad and the calf. I was crying, Dad was yelling at me and Mom was yelling at Dad and the cow and calf were both adding their voices to the chorus. After Dad was sure the calf was ok and both cow and calf were in the barn, it was decided I couldn't drive again till I got taller. Dad was still upset with me, but couldn't say much because Mom was mad at Dad for putting me in that situation.

The car, by the way, was a 1951 Chevy. Black. We had it till Mom was picked up on the way to town by the police. They suspected her in some hit and run because of all the dents in the car. Not any dent I put in it. Dad had caused the biggest dent when he pulled on overhead farm gas tank down on the hood. It also had a few dents from Emma the goat. It was pretty much a wreck. Mom got back home the day the police stopped her and told Dad she would never drive that car again. She was so embarrassed. So Dad traded it for a 1957 Chevy. It also had automatic shift and I did eventually learn to drive in it.

Before I got my drivers lisence though there was the lesson in the big stock truck. It was not automatic. Dad was sending Mom on some errand to a neighbors north of us. Which meant going over that railroad track. Mom decided since it was close, and only on country roads, it was the perfect time to teach me to shift gears. I'd driven with her several times in the "57 by then. We had a half circle driveway and before setting off, Mom had me drive around our driveway and out on the road and circle the drive again. That only got me from neutral to first a couple times, but after all, starting is the hard part of driving a shift. I was doing fine, till we got to the railroad. The stock truck was very old and huge and it had a few quirks of it's own. When we started up the hill that was the railroad track, the truck jumped out of gear and into neutral. We rolled backwards. I put the truck back in gear and started up again. But, once again the truck went into neutral and rolled back. Mom and I got the giggles. (She and I did that a lot.) I tried again.......and again........and again. By then we were laughing pretty hard. I could not get that big old truck over the railroad track. So, we traded places and Mom tried. And tried......and tried. I can't guess how long it took us, but Mom did finally make it. Once over, she stopped and I drove the rest of the way with no trouble. Coming home again, it was the same thing. We laughed till our sides hurt, but I stuck with it till I got over and made it home. Once home, Dad asked why a 20 minute errand had taken us all afternoon and all we could do was start laughing again.

By the time I got to Drivers Training in school, I was an old pro and the nice new standard shift we were taught in was pure luxury. I got to embarrass the boys in our class, because the teacher (a man) said I was the "most natural" he'd ever taught. Then they got to laugh at me because I said something about the car not having as many gears. Someone wanted to know what I was talking about and I said something about the car not having a "creeper gear" That sent everyone into laughter. They had never heard of creeper gear and thought I'd made it up. I still don't know if that was the real name or just what Dad called it. The stock truck had a gear that moved so slow we could keep the truck moving while we picked up corn from the hand picked piles we left when we opened the field. You could walk behind the truck and pick up and throw the corn in the back while it crept on. The only name I knew was "creeper gear." If those boys in Driver Training ever learned I was right, they sure never admitted it to me. I just know once you mastered that old stock truck, standard shift was nothing to fear ever again. Even when our teacher tried to find a hill in our flat county for us to learn to stop and hold and start again on, it was easy for me. I was Teacher's "Natural".

Horrid Hogs and Feeder Calves

Along with the cattle, we raised hogs. Dad used to say he had the hogs to pay for the pure bred Angus. In other words, there was more money in feeder hogs than pure bred cattle. Pigs are impossible to keep penned. Dads solution was electric fences. They are a lot of work too. Weeds and grasses grow to touch low electric fences used to keep little pigs in, which shorts out the electric fence. So one of our jobs was to walk the fence and pull away anything touching it. Which means a lot of zaps. I hated it. They were battery charged, so it wasn't dangerous, but a shock is still a shock. Even a little zap. Pigs don't like the feeling either and after a few zaps, (and a lot of squealing) they avoid the area of the fence. I knew I had to pull the weed away, and I knew what was going to happen when I did. I would cringe before I even touched the darn weed. Also, Dad loved to grab whoever was near and then grab the wire. It's the last person in line who gets the jolt. The longer the line before the last person, the bigger the shock. We learned to stay clear when he was near any electric fence.

Bigger pigs required bigger batteries. Dad was making a new fence in a field near the house one time when Moms parents were visiting. Dad had been teasing Grandmom S. about being afraid to grab the fence. She didn't take teasing well, and told him she wasn't afraid of his fence. She was use to the smaller batteries he used for the little pigs. He didn't tell her this one was hooked up to a big power. She took hold of the fence and it bit her hard enough to knock her back. Talk about being madder than a Jessie. Dad laughed about that for years and she would get mad all over again.

Still, any fence that quit working because of a short would soon have pigs running loose. And they always made their way to Moms garden. Or the road. Pigs and hogs don't herd like cattle. Getting them back in the pen was frustrating and sometimes exciting. I could hold my ground with the cows and usually turn them when they got out and had to be returned to a field. Which didn't happen often. Moving cattle from one field to another was just about the only time we had to chase cows. But, the pigs were out a lot. And no one can turn a pig when it comes at you, and they can run pretty fast. They just swerve past or mow you down. Dad would get awful mad at us when the pigs got past us. S did give it his best shot one day, but he just wasn't big enough. He had his legs spread and his feet planted and he refused to budge. The hog headed his way was about 200 pounds and ready for market. It ran right between his legs, lifted him off the ground and kept going with S on his back. S was facing the wrong end and his little legs stuck out on both sides and he was yelling and the hog was squealing and we were laughing. S had to dive off in in hog mud.

Hog mud is not like mud in a mud puddle after a rain. It's deep and it sucks you down. It's mud that pulls your shoes right off your feet. It's mud that talks to you when you try to walk through it. With a slurping and sucking sound. And, the smell is overwhelming and undescribable. Even from a distance. Being stuck in it will bring tears to your eyes. When I had to walk into a hog lot to feed or water, I would get Dads high gum boots on over my shoes. With each step, you move one foot by holding onto the top of the boot and pulling with one hand while you keep your foot up in the toe and lift as best you can without pulling your foot our of the boot. This manuver keeps you off balance. Then you have to shift your weight and start the process over with the other foot without falling forward, backward or sideways. And, all of this has to be done while hungry hogs are shoving at you, trying to get to the feed you have high over your head in a bucket. I never did make it to the feed trough. I always ended up throwing the food as far away from me as I could, bucket an all. Which got me out of that chore. Dad knew if he sent me to feed the hogs I would probably throw it over the fence and not even go in the pen. And no threat of a spanking was as bad as going into the hog lot. And when they got out, they never knocked me down, because I always got out of the way. I did not like hogs. They were unpredictable mean animals. Hog mothers sometimes even eat their own piglets and often kill the little ones by laying of them. That is why there is always a low fence near the birth pen that the piglets quickly learn to move under to stay out of the way unless Mom is flat and ready to nurse. When she starts to get up, piglets scatter. They may have been our "cash crop", but I hated the hogs.

Dad also tried another "cash crop" one year. He bought some feeder calves. Not Angus. He bought some calves of questionable breed and kept them penned in the barn to grow up big enough to sell. These calves got a little grain with the usual hay and winter silage. (I've been asked what silage is. Chopped up corn, stalk, ear and all kept in a big round silo to feed stock when grass is unavailabe in winter.) The grain for the feeder calves was cooked in an old turkey roaster. The big electric kind that are used at Church suppers and family gatherings and catering type dinners. Dad would mix barley with a little molasses and water and slow cook it till the next feeding. This was spread sparingly between 4-H projects, our two dairy cows and the feeder calves in a mixture of oats or wheat. It was suppose to make the feeder calves gain weight quicker. What Dad didn't know, till we were grown up and admitted it to him, was that the boys discovered they could take a board or two out of the haymow floor and use the hole to drop down on a calfs back. The surprised calf would buck and run. We would try to see who could stay on the longest. With a smallish pen and a bunch of startled steers, falling off could mean getting stepped on by another calf. That's a pretty good incentive to choose your own dismount spot. And this was so much fun that we shared the sport with the neighbors. Dad couldn't figure out why his calves weren't gaining weight. I wonder just how much money our exercising his calves did cost him? I do know he didn't try to raise feeder calves again. When we were grown and the the story came out, he just shook his heard and mumbled something about us wondering why he got so angry with us.

Yup, it's a wonder we lived to grow up.

A cow named Jessie

Angus cattle are usually docile. Even the bulls are usually easy to handle. Dad did have a leg broken when one of the cows swung her head and hit him just right to snap a bone. It was the same leg he'd broken burying the rock. But, this was a clean break and help was right there. With all the cattle to spend time on our farm, we only had one mean cow. I believe Dad named her after the cowboy badman, Jessie James. Jessie was mean all the time, but when she had a calf by her side, Jessie was dangerous. I'm not sure how or when this cow got her mean temperment, but it probably started with her first calf. I do know we each had bad moments with this cow. This was before I got Gypsy, so anytime we had to go out into the herd, it meant walking into the cattle. The first thing you did was look to see where Jessie was, and try to keep as many cows as possible between you. When Jessie had a calf to nurse, Dad usually brought the milk cows in himself, rather than send us out. I remember Mom going out one day and Stormy going with her. The dog was running ahead in the zig zag way of dogs. Stormy caught Jessie's attention and got to close. When Jessie made her charge at Stormy, our "worthless" dog ran straight to Mom and hid behind her. Peeking out from the safety of behind Moms legs, Stormy barked at Jessie. Watching from too far away I was sure Mom was going to be hurt. But, Jessie stopped without hitting them. She had her head lowered and made a few more false charges, but Moms shouts and hand waving kept Jessie at bay. That time. Without a calf, Jessie usually did back down if you were facing her. When there was a young, nursing calf to defend, nothing would save you from getting knocked off your feet. During the worst of those times, Dad would try to keep her penned up. Normally a cow this dangerous would just have been sold. But, Jessie's calves were always champions. This made her too valuable in our small herd to get rid of. Jessie would knock you off your feet or send you flying. She didn't try to stomp you once you were down.

My worst hit was in the barn when I was filling a water tank. I'd bent over to pick up the water hose and Jessie knocked me flat. For days I had a huge bruise on my butt where Jessie hit me, and another big bruise on my shoulder where I hit the water tank.

S took a worse hit one day. Jessie caught him in the belly and put him through a gate. Broken boards and a very winded, bruised S.

My brothers started an expression. "Madder than a Jessie" The neighbors picked it up and it spread through school. We began hearing it all over. S says he still hears someone say it occasionally and he bets they don't know where it came from. But, we know.

Speaking of water tanks. The main tank in the main part of our barn was concrete. About 4 Ft. wide and maybe 10 Ft. long. Concrete tanks are almost impossible to keep clean. On the insides and bottom a green slime accumulates and there is a musty smell. It grows faster in summer, but it's easier to bail out and clean then. Even in winter the stuff grows and only animals would consider drinking it. In winter, in the barn, the cattle keep most of the ice from forming, and whoever fills the tank has to break up any ice they leave.

All of this leads me to a visit from the new Minister's son. Our little country Methodist Church shared the Minister with another little country Church. We had several new Ministers while we were growing up. This one had a son the same age as S. R. H. had never been on a farm before. Mom invited him over to spend a day with my brothers to get aqauainted when they first moved in. J and S were warned to mind their manners and not to embarrass Mom. Remember, this is the Ministers son!!! They took R on a tour of the barn and buildings and the hay mow. They showed him the 4-H calves. They chased a few barn cats. The usual. But, then someone got the bright idea of placing a board long ways across the concrete water tank and walking on it. The worst of winter was over, but it was icy cold and the water was quite yucky. And, of course R didn't make it across the board and fell in. Soaked and cold and smelly he went to Mom for help. And Mom....she was madder than a Jessie.

More about Dad

I mentioned earlier that Dad was wounded in the second world war. He took shrapnel in a parachute jump over France. Dad was a sargent and S has his Purple Heart. He may have told his sons stories about his service when they were older, but all I knew was what Mom told me. That wasn't much, because he didn't say much for years. I remember his bad dreams, they went on till after I started school. We grew up knowing he had a hole in his shoulder and one in his foot. The hole in his shoulder left a scar and a good part of the shoulder bone was missing. There was a smaller scar on the top of his foot. I found some army photos once and asked Mom about a young man who looked like a boy standing beside my Father with a group in uniform. Mom took the picture and told me not to ask Dad about it. She said the young man was only 16 and had lied about his age when he enlisted. He had died when he threw himself over Dad and that was why Dad's wounds were "top and bottom and not his mid section" The young mans last name was Cook and that was all Mom would tell me. I never did ask Dad. Dad received a small partial disability check every month for his wounds. Mom always worried that the partial bone in his shoulder would be broken and leave him more disabled.

Which is why he never told her about the Rodeo. Bulldogging and roping. At the Hopley Farms in Iowa he helped break horses, (which Mom did know and hated) and he had a dapple gray mare he called Smokey. Mom told me she had a fond memory of Dad on the horse and singing, "On Top of Old Smokey" at the top of his lungs when he rode off for the day of work. (She said he couldn't sing) Years later he told us kids that he and the boss's son would take their horses with them on the cattle car out west to sell the stock. (Or buy new) Then they would Rodeo before returning to Iowa. One of Dads favorite stories was about practicing with W, (the boss's son) on the farm. They were out roping when a train went by and Dad bet W that he couldn't rope the caboose. Without thinking, just taking on the bet, W threw and caught the corner post of the gate across the back of the caboose. Then, when the rope almost pulled him off his horse, he realized there wasn't any way to get his rope back. Dad would get to laughing so hard, when he remembered how angry W was at Dad for making him lose a brand new rope. Dad wasn't a braggert, but he was proud when he told us he had a time on the record books for his calf-roping before the fire forced him to leave Iowa.

This next story doesn't really fit here, or anywhere else, but I have to tell it.
On the first day of haying, Dad would have severe "charlie horse" cramps in his legs from balancing on the hay wagons he was loading. Some years it would be so bad he would pass out from the pain. Then he would fall and the muscles would draw up his legs. I remember the first year that happened. We had been eating supper when he jumped up, took a few steps and went down. Mom called for us to help. She stretched him out on his back and had one kid sit on his chest and the other two sat on his legs to keep them stretched out. We were young enough to think this was some kind of new game. Dad was confused, and a bit annoyed, when he came around to find us sitting on him and laughing. The next year it happened again and we were there quickly, knowing just what to do and understanding it better. I've seen my Father in a lot of pain, but this was different once we knew it was temporary and kinda funny and only happened early each hay season. One year our parents were playing cards with the neighbors, though it wasn't the first day, Dad had one of his charlie horses. He suddenly jumped up from the table, surprising the neighbors, and took a step and passed out. My brothers and I had been in the next room when he hit the floor. By now this was old stuff to us, and we stretched him out and sat on him. Mom noticed the looks on our neighbors faces and started laughing. Dad came around, told us he was ok now and we went back to the other room. Dad sat back down at the card table and tried to act like nothing had happened. Mom was in hysterics and Dad finally had to laugh too. The game didn't continue till an explanation had been given to the guests. They must have found a remedy for his muscle cramps, because I don't remember this happening anymore when I was older.

Witch

They called her "old Lady P___" and she lived a couple of miles from us on the county road. The original house was a large Elizabethan style farm house. I don't know anything about a husband or how long they had been living on the farm. Or how she made a living for that matter. The big farm house was so dilapidated that it was unlivable. They never made any effort to fix it up. By the time we were aware of them, Mrs. P and her retarded son had moved across the road into what had been a chicken coop. We were warned to stay away. The adults knew she was "different" and whispered that she was crazy. And, no one knew what to expect from her very large retarded son. I also have no idea of their ages. She looked like an old witch with gray hair in an untidy bun piled on top of her head. And any time anyone saw her, she had a shotgun nearby. which she would point at you if you even drove past the property.

The first I knew of the son was on a walk that took me further from home than usual. I was walking in the woods behind the Monnett farm when he surprised me. I'm sure I must have surprised him too. We became aware of each other while still about 30 yards or so apart when Stormy gave a low growl. I thought I knew the locals and here was a very large boy/man I'd never seen before. He had the features of retardation and he scared me. I realized I was further from home than I'd realized and no one knew where I was. Then I realized that Stormy scared him. My dog was between us and none of us had moved, though Stormy was still rumbling down in her throat. I called to her and when she came to me, I put my hand on her head and turned to leave. Stormy was never the guard dog that Treasure would be, (though I couldn't know that then) but having her with me made me feel better that day. I looked back several times, but he was walking away from us too. He must have been less someone to fear than feel sorry for, but there are always stories when people feared what they didn't understand.

S and some friends had the first experience that led to calling Mrs. P a witch, and that group of boys, all roughly the same age, in our area giving her a rough time. The boys had pulled into her driveway to sell something for one of those school projects. It was winter and had gotten dark early. Mrs. P came out of her chicken coop "house" with a shotgun and a lantern before the boys had gotten a few feet from the car. She had the lantern raised high and just let go of it to raise her gun. There was nothing there to hang the lantern on! It floated right there in the air. Shocked at the sight, the boys froze. The shotgun was almost as long as she was and she had it pointed at them. When she ordered them to get off her land......they got.

During daylight, they kept driving past for days, trying to see anything she could have hung the lantern on. There just wasn't anything near by to explain what they had seen. They decided she was a witch and word spread quickly. The boys wouldn't leave her alone and she got wilder with her shotgun. It's a wonder the only thing ever hit was the back of the car when those brats threw the cherry bomb.

Brother J and one of his friends had just one story that I ever got wind of. They had actually gotten inside the big dilapidated house. They were sneaking around exploring when she came looking for them. They didn't know if she had heard something or seen the flashlight, but they hid. I heard they had to hide for over two hours before she gave up. They were lucky that she didn't find them. I'm sure they told all the other boys all about it, but I was just the sister. I heard bits and pieces of other expeditions into Mrs. P territory, but it was a "guy thing" and not shared with me. If any of their parents had any knowledge of what they were up to, it would have stopped. I sure never knew it had gone that far.

I only know of one other real bit of mischief that could be called criminal. It was mild enough that I just thought it was funny. The same railroad track that ran through our property, crossed the county road several miles southwest of us at the property of our bus driver. That railroad track was raised higher than the road, like most of the crossings in our county. We crossed the tracks one morning on the bus, when the driver noticed the old building that stood on the corner of his land there had fallen down. It had been propped up with boards, but had always leaned since we'd lived there. The driver commented that he hadn't realized there had been that much wind the night before. One look at the neighborhood boys faces would have given him his clue. And, they did admit to me later that they had been out that night and pulled away the props. The whole thing collapsed in one big heap.

It's a wonder we lived to grow up.

Memory from S

I had a nice visit from brother S and his wife T this past weekend. He tells me that he remembers some things a bit differently, but thinks I'm mostly accurate. But, several times he made a point of saying that I was spoiled rotten. Actually, I really can't argue with him. Compared to the work Dad had them doing at a very early age, and their more constant exposure to Dads temper....I suppose I was lucky. As the only girl and the oldest, I can't deny that I would have seemed like "Daddy's little girl" to them. I probably was. But he also held me up to a very high standard and I would have died rather than disappoint either of my parents. I had chores to do in the barn. Light chores. And I had to help with hay baling. I had to help with opening corn fields so the corn picker could get in. This consisted of hand picking the first rows next to the fence. I had to get up in the grain bins after each load to push grain (oats and wheat) aside for the next load. We had to this while it was loading too and the dust would choke you. Same with the silo when it was filled. I especially remember each of those chores, because hay baling is hot and dirty. And, I've never liked being in the sun. Heat makes me feel drained, weak, dizzy....just miserable. Still does, in fact as I get older, it's worse. Being stuck in the hay mow, pulling the bales away from the loader always made me dizzy. I only had to keep them from blocking the loader, there was always someone stronger to stack them. But, when I did any heavy lifting I would get weak and dizzy. (I'll tell you about the aneurysm in my head that was causing all this later. We didn't know anything was wrong with me then and Dad would get angry and call me lazy when I couldn't keep up) Hand picking corn, with or without the gadget that fit our hands and hooked the ear, always tore my hands to shreds. And it always came early in the school year. I hated the way my hands looked when I started a new school year. And now it's been proved that grain shaft and dust causes damage to our lungs, so I know why breathing was so hard when we worked in the grain bins. Country life was fun, but it was a lot of hard work too. And, I did have the easy jobs. J and S grew up working the fields, keeping the stock fed and safe and all the multiple jobs like cleaning out barns and fixing fences. Hard dirty work made harder by a Father who expected them to anticipate and know everything before they were mature enough to do so. Dad had an awful temper when he thought you could do better...and we could always do better. We all three went running when he yelled. So, I did try to stay in the house with Mom every chance I got. And Mom helped me stay there as much as she could. It's just that on a farm, everyone has to pitch in to get things done. Mom was stuck doing Dads assignments too. I've just remembered an example of Dads yelling. We three kids were helping load stock for the stockyards to sell. This entailed sorting the animal or animals for sale and getting them on the truck. We had a big stock truck and a loading shoot. The truck was backed up against the shoot. The shoot was a narrow flat to the ground, and then raised solid wood structure. There was a narrow fenced lead to the shoot next to a grain building so the animals could be forced up the shoot and into the truck once you herded them into the lead. Forcing them meant an electric (battery, just a small jolt) prod, or before we had that we had to twist their tails or poke them to make them move forward. The last animal had been loaded and the truck door closed. Dad had gone back to the barn, but we three tarried outside. Then we heard Dad let out a cantankerous bellow and we ran. Arriving at the door just in time for another bawling bellow, we saw the bull making all the noise. It hadn't been Dad! But, without a word we had all thought it was, and had run before we could get in trouble. Standing at the barn door we got the giggles and it's probably a good thing Dad wasn't near to ask us what the laughter was about. (Years later I told Dad once that he had mellowed a lot since we were kids. He told me, "No, I just don't have to deal with you kids anymore.")

I want to tell you a story that S relayed to me during his visit this weekend. I knew some of the results but hadn't heard all of it. I guess country kids can cause trouble and get into it. Boys anyway. I never did anything like this. They were about 15 and Mom and Dad had decided we were old enough to be left alone. They went to the Chicago Stock Expo and cattle show with friends for a weekend. I went out for the evening on a date. When I got home, the house was a disaster. The boys had a party. With beer. I tried to clean up what I could, but I was mad at them and wasn't worried about them getting caught, so I only straightened up a bit and wiped up what was sticky. When Mom returned to the house she kept finding watermelon seeds. On top of window sills. In light fixtures. On top of the cabinets. Stuck to curtains and walls. She found beer caps down in the kitchen stove burners. Dad discovered bullet holes (22's) in the tin roof of the garage. They had been shooting at birds. So, they got caught and were in big trouble. But, it would have been a whole lot worse if Mom and Dad had known what S told me this weekend. A car load (too many actually for the car) of drunk farm boys had gone over to a neighbor, who I must tell you more about sometime because this woman was a witch, and they threw a cherry bomb in her bedroom window. Her house was falling down and she and her retarded son lived in the chicken coop. I'm afraid I did know how much the neighborhood (and others) tormented this woman. Anyway, these boys parked the car, not one of ours, at the end of the drive and snuck up and threw the cherry bomb. S says he stayed in the car because he had delt with Mrs. P before and knew she was crazy. S says before the boys could run back to the car, she came out of the chicken coop in her nightgown, with long hair blowing straight out in the wind (it hung to her ankles) and lifted her shotgun and started shooting. The boys made it to the car, but the back of B. P's car was shot up and he had to go home to his parents and explain the buckshot in the back of their car. I don't know how they managed to keep that from our parents. But I never heard it before. I need to talk to my brother again. I'm sure he has other stories he could tell me. Nest time I'll try to remember more about our neighborhood witch, Mrs.P. One story comes to mind right away. She was crazy. Even before the kids tormented her. I stayed away because I was afraid of the retarded son. He was even more scary then Mrs. P.

Flying Critters

S wanted a parakeet. He got a blue bird he called Dandy Jim. It was pretty, and dirty. A lot of squawk and seed kicked and thrown all around the cage. (And, on the floor) Not to mention the paper that Dandy Jim pulled up off his cage floor and shredded and messed on, which needed changed every day. And birds are not affectionate. Dandy Jim was fine, but I decided it wasn't a pet I ever wanted. But, S and Mom enjoyed Dandy Jim. Mom use to let him out of his cage to fly around the house. At first just long enough to clean his cage. His wings were clipped a bit then so he didn't fly much. But, they soon quit clipping and let him out longer. This led to a discovery that was very amusing. Dandy Jim started dive bombing the soap bubbles in the dish water. He would fly through them, making bubbles fly all over. He seemed to really enjoy this sport. Mom started using more soap to build higher mounds of bubbles. But, as the pile of bubbles dispersed, Dandy Jim would fly lower......till he got too low and came up soaking wet and squawking mad. Still, the next time anyone did dishes, he was right there waiting for a big pile of bubbles to dive bomb. He was definately S's bird. When S was in the house, Dandy Jim would be on his head or shoulder. They seemed to understand each other. It all ended one day when Dandy Jim managed to escape through a door when someone came in. He was gone. One of life's unfair ironies...why did it have to be S who discovered the blue feathers and evidence of a cat meal.

Then S decided he wanted a baby bat. He told us all that he found it on the floor of the barn and rescued it. I've just learned that he knew he would be in trouble if he admitted climbing to the peak of the barn roof where the wall meets the roof and, with leather gloves, reached in and pulled out the baby bat. (I'm not surprised) When he brought it to the house, Mom called our Veterinarian for advice on how to save it. Between Mom and the Vet a plan was formed. At first the baby bat was kept in a coffee can with cheese cloth stretched across the top and held in place with a rubber band. Steve (or Mom) named him Mickey, because he looked like a little mouse both in color and soft fur, with his wings tucked in tight against his body. We would put Mickey in the coffee can, attach the cheese cloth and tip the can till he could climb to the cloth. Then we could set it upright and Mickey would climg to the cheese cloth and hang in his coffee can cave. Feeding the baby bat was fun. The vet had actually done this. We would cup our palms with the fingers slightly apart and pointing up. Mickey would cling upside down to a finger and drink warm milk from our palms. When he got a little bigger, Mom and Steve made a cheesecloth cave out of Dandy Jims cage. This gave Mickey room to crawl around and hide in folds of cloth. I don't know how long they planned to keep him, but we all knew he would have to be released to fly and find insects. Meanwhile, Mickey went to Sunday School where he was a lesson in loveing all of Gods creatures. Up close and personal most kids got over their fear. Mickey was soooo soft and his wings were very fragile with little claws at the tips. Mom wasn't sure he would be safe on the bus, so she drove us and he was taken to our grade school. We didn't have "show and tell" but that would describe the trip to school. We each had him in our classroom for part of the day. Not everyone managed to touch him, (some were just too afraid) but they all wanted to see us feed him milk. Mickey was a special lesson and we all grew attached to him. Alas, despite our efforts, Mickey had an accident too. Though at first Mom told us she let him go and we didn't find out till years later the sad ending. Mickey's cage had been left too close to the oil stove in the living room one night when it turned cold and the heater kicked up higher. Mom woke up in the morning to find a baked bat. I like to think his life wasn't in vain. Although we still ducked and avoided the bats in the barn, we didn't feel the need to swing two by fours at them anymore.

J and S were out hunting one day. S thinks they were hunting rabbit. They discovered 8 little black hens wandering along the railroad track. They looked a little like Banties, but were some breed we couldn't identify. The brothers "herded" them all the way to the house. These eight free ranged around the farm awhile, but we never found any nests or eggs. We didn't have chickens, so someone got a white rooster from Uncle W. We still couldn't find the nests, but they started having chicks. Chicks, chicks, and more chicks. The little chicks were darling. Shiny black with some lighter markings.They were fiesty and always fighting among themselves. The new grown roosters used to go at each other with spurs and they looked like the fighting cocks we'd seen on T.V. Mom did some research and decided they were Japanese Fighting Cocks, mixed with Uncle W's white rooster. They must have fallen of a train, though the boys never found a crate, I understand that fighting cocks are fitted with metal blades, but the spurs on the back of these chickens legs were still wicked when they attacked. They would fly right up in the air with feet out in attack mode. Once the population had grown, we could find eggs, but they were small and unfit to eat. Mom tried to cook the some of our rapidly expanding flock, but the meat was oily and shiny blue black. It tasted like chicken, but it was too hard to look at and eat. None of us wanted it, no matter how she fixed it. Now we had a problem. They were multiplying like fleas and we had fighting cocks everywhere. They attacked our dog and the farm cats. And it wasn't safe for us to walk across the barnyard. Aggressive chickens were taking over. So the boys and some of their friends were given permission to take their shotguns out an a mass chicken murder. Now, don't get all teary eyed for the 120 or so chickens. If you'd had a chicken with sharp spurs fly at you just once, you'd want to shoot it too.

Crazy "Lady"

I pretty much skipped over the first white (Albino) horse we called Lady. Except to say she was "no lady". Let me tell you more about Lady. The day we looked at her, she was fine. I was able to ride her, she seemed gentle. No kicks, no bites. She just seemed to be an 8 year old riding mare. I'm not sure when the trouble started. She had a pen in the barn, but also spent most of the time out in the pasture with the black cattle. That amused Dad, all his black cattle and one white horse in his fields. He kept telling me she looked out of place and we needed to get rid of her. He was teasing, but that teasing became serious when she kept getting meaner and meaner. Dad could ride her anytime, but he couldn't always control her. The more he whipped her, the worse she got. A lot of horses will swell their bellies when you put the saddle on. If you aren't alert, you will find the saddle you thought you had tight, isn't tight at all. Dad taught me to knee her in the belly hard enough to make her breathe, or wait till she had to breathe and time the tightening of the saddle before she could take another deep breath. This usually shows a horse who is boss, but this is one horse who didn't believe it. She believed she was boss and continued to fight us to prove it. Still there were days when she acted just fine. When I could ride her all afternoon without any problem. A psychotic horse. Not just with me, the child. She made things hard for Dad and Mom. I have a vivid memory of my Mother trying to ride Lady one day when Lady was really crazy. First Lady reared up over and over. I still don't know if Mom was that good a rider or just too stubborn to let go. Then Lady got the bit in her mouth and took off. She tried to knock Mom off under the apple trees. Then she reared again under the tree. Mom hugged the horses back and stayed put. Meanwhile she was beating Lady with a stick. Lady finally got winded and had to stop. Mom got off the horses back and said that was it, the horse had to go. She wanted to take her to Quaker Oats where they made dog food in our town. I remember another time when Dad was on her back. It was before the front porch had been turned into my bedroom. It was a concrete porch with a roof, about 10' by 14' with three steps on one end. Dad was trying to force Lady to go where he wanted and he took her up those steps and made her jump off the other end. The ceiling wasn't that high and I remember my Dad leaning forward on her back under that porch ceiling. I was proud that he could still control her in such an awkward position. Dad had broken horses in Iowa and also ridden in the rodeo when stock was taken by train to Colorado. (That's where he was when the house burned in Iowa.) I wondered how someone who was so good with horses didn 't want them on his farm. I still don't know the answer to that.

Before she got bad, there were a few things I remember. When we first brought her home and let her out in the pasture with the cattle, a neighbor phoned to tell Dad to go check his cattle. This neighbor swore there was a deer with our herd. Dad told me he, "didn't know J drank" Lady also "adopted" a calf. This calf followed Lady everywhere and Lady wouldn't let anyone else near the calf. Dad wondered later is the horse wanted a colt and that was part of her "Problem" I had a friend over one winter day to ride. Lady had been pretty well behaved, and this friend had ridden before so I thought we'd be ok. We had her in the barn, putting on the saddle and I didn't pay enough attention. P had put the saddle on, and I didn't see Lady swell up. P was going to ride and I planned to lead them out of the barn before turning the reins over to P. When P put her foot in the stirrup, Lady was still puffed up. P swung her foot over and Lady let out the breath in a whoosh. The saddle started to slide down and P lunged to get to the horses back instead of falling. She didn't fall on this side....she went clear over Ladys back and landed on the ground on the other side. I laughed so hard.....and when P got her breathe back, she was laughing too. I never saw anything like that. Between her winter clothes and the straw on the barn floor, P wasn't hurt at all, and Lady actually just stood there. She didn't even kick at us. We finally started over, I saddled Lady and P got her ride.

The day a man answered Dad's advertisement to sell Lady, she was on good behavior again. I rode her all over the barnyard so the guy could watch her move. He rode her and she was as good as the day we bought her. I always wondered how long he had her before she went psycho again. I kept thinking those first few days that he could call us and want to bring her back and get his money back. Dad said after seeing me ride her, he wouldn't dare admit he couldn't handle her.

Jr. Leadership

I was in 4-H several years when our county started a Jr. Leadership club. They selected 4-H club officers who had shown leadership in our club and at the county fair and invited us to join. Dad was more tickled than I was that I had been asked. I wasn't too keen on taking on another activity, but he would have been very disappointed in me if I'd turned it down. We met once a month for regular meetings and it turned out to be a lot of fun. We did have the duty of showing up at other agricultural affairs to introduce the guest speekers or help at auctions or work on the Jr. Fair Board. We could also be counselors at 4-H camp. My multiple fair schedule kept me from doing that. After our monthly meetings we had square dances or scavenger hunts or some other party like planned activity. I loved to square dance. Those were always fun. But, the night I remember most was a scavenger hunt. They had us divided into 5 or 6 groups of 5 each. They made sure each group had a car and they gave us a very long list and two hours to gather. Then we had to meet back at the meeting room at the fairgrounds to see who had the most things on the list. It seems most of the groups just started at the top of the list and set off. We took time to read the whole list and each of us contributed information and we made a route to follow. Way down near the bottom of the list was "a lock of Gussie Smiths hair". Gussie was a sweet old lady who was in charge of the county Home Echonomics. Everyone knew Gussie. We went straight to her house and showed her the list. It was the first she knew of it. She gave us some hair from a hair brush, signed a paper saying it was authentic, then locked her door, turned out her lights and pretended she wasn't home for the next two hours. I bet our advisors heard from her later though!!! We followed our route, did our gathering and managed a lot of the list. It was obvious from the list that no one would be able to find everything. I remember that no one found a black walnut in shell. It was the wrong time of year for that one. I also remember one of the items was a blue feather. My brother S had a blue parakeet, so we were the only ones with that one. One of the items was an ice cube. We did make a mistake by getting it a bit too early. Our leader, the one with the car, (who was one of my grade school teachers sons) had picked me and I was sitting in front beside him, with another boy on my other side. ( I loved Jr. Leadership) (There were two other girls in the back seat with our growing hord between them.) We had gotten a bunch of ice cubes so they might keep the center one cold and we'd stuck them in the glove box. I was sitting in the middle with a flashlight and the list and our notes and route. I was the so-pilot. My knees were turned to the right to avoid the gear shift, which put them under the corner of the glove box. I was wearing shorts and when the cold water from a melting ice cube hit my leg, I let out a yell of surprise. Which almost sent our driver into a ditch. We laughed and teased and it was so much fun. Those are the things we like to remember. We got back to the meeting room first and the advisors thought we'd given up. They were surprised when we won, hands down. It was also a lot of fun to tease the other groups because they hadn't been forsightful enough to get to Gussy Smith first. When no one else had a lock of her hair, it was her signature that convinced the advisors. I must admit it was the teachers son who put us in the lead.

I mentioned that one of our "duties" was to introduce guest speakers. I can't remember what the gathering was, but it was a group my Father belonged to. There were several speakers and I was asked to intorduce a Mr. Marlbow, or something like that. I'd never met the man and didn't even get a chance to meet him before introducing him because he came in late. I almost thought I wouldn't have to introduce him, but they said he was there when it was my turn. I stood up and introduced "Mr. Marlboro Man". If you aren't old enough to remember who that was, it was a cigarette advertisement. I was embarrassed, Dad was even more embarrassed, but Mr. Marlbow (or whatever) couldn't stop laughing to start his speech. And, he kept glancing at me and chuckling all through his speech. It was a while before I was asked to introduce anyone again.

There were a great many activities and affairs while I was in Jr. Leadership. But, these are all that come to mind right now. I guess the things we remember most are the ones that are the most fun or the most upsetting. Everything else seems to fade into oblivion. unless it was most fun or most upsetting to someone who reminds us of it later. Memories are coming back to me now that I haven't thought of in years. I can't wait to get together with brother S and talk. I'm sure he will have a lot more for me to write about. And, I haven't even gotten to the things my teenage friends and I managed. And, there are some upsetting things I will have to put on paper. If and when I'm ready. My brother J's death is trying to find it's way to paper, but I'm just not ready. My kids want to hear it all, good and bad. (Not that they will get it ALL. Some things are mine alone.) Life is so full of little things that flow easy. But, the big things need to be talked about too. J's death, and my Uncle B's death. They both died too young and their deaths effected me enormously. I also lost a best friend before she was 21. I want to honor their stories and their part in my life. Some other time.