Story One Our Place
A place of our own was the problem. Dad and Mom dreamed of one, saved for one and finally searched for one. They made it a family affair. Dad drove us to different places in our beautiful valley. We saw acres with streams running through, wild flowers blooming in soft green meadows, and pieces of rolling land with white birch trees and stately tamarack.
I loved the creeks. I wanted to sit with my feet stuck in the wet and listen to the water babbling over rocks. We looked for a long time, but for some reason didn't buy any of the wonderful pieces of land we explored.
"Girls, your mother and I bought our land," Dad announced one day.
My older sister, Norma and I clapped our hands and danced around. We even included Alan, our toddler brother, in the excitement. Now we could play in the creeks and fish and pick flowers.
When we drove to our place, I couldn't believe it. It was ten acres of completely flat sandy soil full of clump grass. The only trees were a few Poop Spruce and Bull Pine. Not that they aren't perfectly good trees, they just aren't pretty.
Dad moved an old L-shaped building on the front part of the acreage facing the highway and spent the next twenty-five years raising us kids and remodeling. He never quite finished anything. A piece of molding never got put on or a door was missing or the wallpaper border only on three walls.
A small fiesty man, Dad tried to cover his crustiness with Christianity, but never quite succeeded. Things just plain aggravated him. He hated all surveyors, the Fish and Game Department, all politicians should be shot and us kids had better mind.
Mom, short and round, had a gentle soul. She loved her Lord, us kids and everyone around her. She also had the absolute knack of laying guilt on us heathen-like children. Two more were born after we moved onto the home place. There were now five heathenistic helluns to control and she let us run.
We covered a lot of territory.
Story two Magic Cape
One of the places we roamed was Grandpa Yeats farm. We had stayed there a lot before we got our own place, and it too belonged to us. We knew every inch of the creek bed, fields and buildings, the barn being our favorite.
One time when I was about four years old, Norma and I were swinging on our Tarzan swing in the hay loft. She was always Tarzan and I was always either Jane or Cheetah. She looked at me.
"I'm tired of this game," she said. "Wanna play Superman?"
"Sure," I answered.
"There are some old gunny sacks down by the grain bin. We could use them for magic capes to make us fly. Go get 'em."
Obedient, I climbed down the ladder and dug around in the dim light. I found two oat-smelling sacks. Norma tied one around her shoulders and helped me with mine.
"Now we can fly," she said.
I wasn't so sure.
She walked over to the hayloft door and gazed out onto the barn yard, then the far horizon. "I'll bet," she announced, "that we can fly right over the horse shed, the granary and the pig sty to the creek."
I looked where her finger pointed, then down. "I don't think I want to," I said. "You go first."
"No, I wouldn't want to leave you up here all by yourself."
Now this was my big sister who loved me dearly, and those words told me she also worried about me. Besides that she was two years older and knew everything. I stepped to the edge and stared. Way down.
"Don't be a chicken," said Norma. "You are Superman and can fly."
I flew. Down--yeah, down. The magic cape flew straight up around my neck. Splat. A manure pile saved my life. Our mother's face was very stressed as she washed me and put my arm in a sling.
I was secretly glad when Norma's place at the dinner table sat empty that evening.
A place of our own was the problem. Dad and Mom dreamed of one, saved for one and finally searched for one. They made it a family affair. Dad drove us to different places in our beautiful valley. We saw acres with streams running through, wild flowers blooming in soft green meadows, and pieces of rolling land with white birch trees and stately tamarack.
I loved the creeks. I wanted to sit with my feet stuck in the wet and listen to the water babbling over rocks. We looked for a long time, but for some reason didn't buy any of the wonderful pieces of land we explored.
"Girls, your mother and I bought our land," Dad announced one day.
My older sister, Norma and I clapped our hands and danced around. We even included Alan, our toddler brother, in the excitement. Now we could play in the creeks and fish and pick flowers.
When we drove to our place, I couldn't believe it. It was ten acres of completely flat sandy soil full of clump grass. The only trees were a few Poop Spruce and Bull Pine. Not that they aren't perfectly good trees, they just aren't pretty.
Dad moved an old L-shaped building on the front part of the acreage facing the highway and spent the next twenty-five years raising us kids and remodeling. He never quite finished anything. A piece of molding never got put on or a door was missing or the wallpaper border only on three walls.
A small fiesty man, Dad tried to cover his crustiness with Christianity, but never quite succeeded. Things just plain aggravated him. He hated all surveyors, the Fish and Game Department, all politicians should be shot and us kids had better mind.
Mom, short and round, had a gentle soul. She loved her Lord, us kids and everyone around her. She also had the absolute knack of laying guilt on us heathen-like children. Two more were born after we moved onto the home place. There were now five heathenistic helluns to control and she let us run.
We covered a lot of territory.
Story two Magic Cape
One of the places we roamed was Grandpa Yeats farm. We had stayed there a lot before we got our own place, and it too belonged to us. We knew every inch of the creek bed, fields and buildings, the barn being our favorite.
One time when I was about four years old, Norma and I were swinging on our Tarzan swing in the hay loft. She was always Tarzan and I was always either Jane or Cheetah. She looked at me.
"I'm tired of this game," she said. "Wanna play Superman?"
"Sure," I answered.
"There are some old gunny sacks down by the grain bin. We could use them for magic capes to make us fly. Go get 'em."
Obedient, I climbed down the ladder and dug around in the dim light. I found two oat-smelling sacks. Norma tied one around her shoulders and helped me with mine.
"Now we can fly," she said.
I wasn't so sure.
She walked over to the hayloft door and gazed out onto the barn yard, then the far horizon. "I'll bet," she announced, "that we can fly right over the horse shed, the granary and the pig sty to the creek."
I looked where her finger pointed, then down. "I don't think I want to," I said. "You go first."
"No, I wouldn't want to leave you up here all by yourself."
Now this was my big sister who loved me dearly, and those words told me she also worried about me. Besides that she was two years older and knew everything. I stepped to the edge and stared. Way down.
"Don't be a chicken," said Norma. "You are Superman and can fly."
I flew. Down--yeah, down. The magic cape flew straight up around my neck. Splat. A manure pile saved my life. Our mother's face was very stressed as she washed me and put my arm in a sling.
I was secretly glad when Norma's place at the dinner table sat empty that evening.
The picture to the left is Mom and Dad. Norma, Me and little brother Alan. This was taken shortly after we bought our land.
My little brother and sister with Mom and Dad
Story 3 Pay Back
By the time we were in the fourth and sixth grades Norma was a complete through and through tomboy and the controller of the neighborhood. Norma-nator should have been her name. Always meek and shy, I drove her out of her mind.
We didn't lack for playmates. Next door in a long green stucco house lived the Grilley boys, across the highway was the Nelsons. They were old, but their granddaughter played with us when she visited. The three Horner girls lived on the other side and on top of Saurey Hill lived the Saureys. This bunch of kids is who we played with or fought with depending on Norma's mood for the day.
We had my wish. A creek was only a half mile away. We followed a country road north until we came to a spot where the creek passed under the road, made a bend and went back under the road. This area was ours. We fished and swam, built forts and ate picnic lunches there.
Shy Brookies lived in that stream. We caught them on worms and Schnell hooks, size number six. We crept real careful, not making a sound or casting a shadow on the water, as we flung our lines into the water. The current took the worms downstream under overhanging bushes where fish hid.
Norma caught her share as we all did, but woe be to any of us who made noise. One day Norma shrieked. She high-stepped quickly in the opposite direction. "What's the matter?" I asked in a loud whisper. "You're scaring the fish."
"I almost stepped on a damn snake," she answered.
"Not afraid of a little snake are you?" I asked, surprised at her forbidden word.
"Of course not! I just don't like them."
Norma is afraid of the small green water snakes, my mind said. This was an enormous discovery! I now had an equalizer!
I bided my time. Sure enough a few days later she told me to move further downstream, because I was in the particular spot she wanted.
Mumbling to myself, I trudged downstream and plopped on the bank. Movement caught my eye. I reached into the weeds and pulled out a wiggling, hissing snake. It was only a small water snake, but when I held it by the back of the neck, it dangled down a good foot. Wiggling. Mouth open and forked tongue sticking out. Perfect.
"See what I found," I said as I quietly stood at her squatting back.
She glanced up and saw what I held. "Yukkkk," she screamed. "Get away!"
I held it closer.
"Wait till I tell Mom what you did!" she screamed at me and ran for home.
A little guilt should have nagged at my mind, but fishing was good that day.
Story 4 Diving Boards
The bend in the creek made a great swimming hole. Kids being kids, we were not satisfied with jumping off the bank. Therefore, we spent hours building diving boards of various sizes and shapes. The engineering of these magnificent boards was something to see.
One of the benefits of Dad working in a sawmill was that he brought home scraps and pieces of lumber. He supplied us with us old lumber for our projects. One day he even gave us a plank.
Our cousins from Kalispell were visiting. They spent a lot of time at our house in the summer. Jeanie, Bernie and Lyle were a shade older and very sophisticated. They were town kids. Bernie and Lyle lugged the plank the half mile to the creek. We built up the bank with the clay, making it as high as we dared and plenty wide enough to hold the plank. We placed it just prefect with one end sticking out over the water.
We pile lots of rocks. Some were boulders, on the other end to hold it in place. After many hours and much labor our supreme board was completed.
Norma was the only one whoever got to make a dive off the boards we made. She was the biggest, and it fell to her to be the test diver. If the board held up for her, then anyone of us could use it in relative safety. We watched from the bank as diving board after diving board fell into the water with great splashes of water when Norma jumped off.
This board was no different.
"We should get to go first," said Bernie and Lyle. "We lugged the plank to the creek."
Norma gave them the evil eye.
"All right," said Bernie, "we'll watch for weak spots in the rocks."
Norma took her time. She inched her way out onto the board. She jiggled it up and down.
"Any weak spots," she asked.
"Naw," answered Bernie.
Norma sprang in the air. Her feet came down on the board for a mighty lift off. It buckled, sending rocks and boulders high. Norma hit the water with a belly flop that shook the earth and sent a spray of water arcing over us. Her scream is what I remember. Never heard one like it again. I wondered how she avoided getting killed and going to heaven.
By the time we were in the fourth and sixth grades Norma was a complete through and through tomboy and the controller of the neighborhood. Norma-nator should have been her name. Always meek and shy, I drove her out of her mind.
We didn't lack for playmates. Next door in a long green stucco house lived the Grilley boys, across the highway was the Nelsons. They were old, but their granddaughter played with us when she visited. The three Horner girls lived on the other side and on top of Saurey Hill lived the Saureys. This bunch of kids is who we played with or fought with depending on Norma's mood for the day.
We had my wish. A creek was only a half mile away. We followed a country road north until we came to a spot where the creek passed under the road, made a bend and went back under the road. This area was ours. We fished and swam, built forts and ate picnic lunches there.
Shy Brookies lived in that stream. We caught them on worms and Schnell hooks, size number six. We crept real careful, not making a sound or casting a shadow on the water, as we flung our lines into the water. The current took the worms downstream under overhanging bushes where fish hid.
Norma caught her share as we all did, but woe be to any of us who made noise. One day Norma shrieked. She high-stepped quickly in the opposite direction. "What's the matter?" I asked in a loud whisper. "You're scaring the fish."
"I almost stepped on a damn snake," she answered.
"Not afraid of a little snake are you?" I asked, surprised at her forbidden word.
"Of course not! I just don't like them."
Norma is afraid of the small green water snakes, my mind said. This was an enormous discovery! I now had an equalizer!
I bided my time. Sure enough a few days later she told me to move further downstream, because I was in the particular spot she wanted.
Mumbling to myself, I trudged downstream and plopped on the bank. Movement caught my eye. I reached into the weeds and pulled out a wiggling, hissing snake. It was only a small water snake, but when I held it by the back of the neck, it dangled down a good foot. Wiggling. Mouth open and forked tongue sticking out. Perfect.
"See what I found," I said as I quietly stood at her squatting back.
She glanced up and saw what I held. "Yukkkk," she screamed. "Get away!"
I held it closer.
"Wait till I tell Mom what you did!" she screamed at me and ran for home.
A little guilt should have nagged at my mind, but fishing was good that day.
Story 4 Diving Boards
The bend in the creek made a great swimming hole. Kids being kids, we were not satisfied with jumping off the bank. Therefore, we spent hours building diving boards of various sizes and shapes. The engineering of these magnificent boards was something to see.
One of the benefits of Dad working in a sawmill was that he brought home scraps and pieces of lumber. He supplied us with us old lumber for our projects. One day he even gave us a plank.
Our cousins from Kalispell were visiting. They spent a lot of time at our house in the summer. Jeanie, Bernie and Lyle were a shade older and very sophisticated. They were town kids. Bernie and Lyle lugged the plank the half mile to the creek. We built up the bank with the clay, making it as high as we dared and plenty wide enough to hold the plank. We placed it just prefect with one end sticking out over the water.
We pile lots of rocks. Some were boulders, on the other end to hold it in place. After many hours and much labor our supreme board was completed.
Norma was the only one whoever got to make a dive off the boards we made. She was the biggest, and it fell to her to be the test diver. If the board held up for her, then anyone of us could use it in relative safety. We watched from the bank as diving board after diving board fell into the water with great splashes of water when Norma jumped off.
This board was no different.
"We should get to go first," said Bernie and Lyle. "We lugged the plank to the creek."
Norma gave them the evil eye.
"All right," said Bernie, "we'll watch for weak spots in the rocks."
Norma took her time. She inched her way out onto the board. She jiggled it up and down.
"Any weak spots," she asked.
"Naw," answered Bernie.
Norma sprang in the air. Her feet came down on the board for a mighty lift off. It buckled, sending rocks and boulders high. Norma hit the water with a belly flop that shook the earth and sent a spray of water arcing over us. Her scream is what I remember. Never heard one like it again. I wondered how she avoided getting killed and going to heaven.
These kids are the Connor cousins we played with. Bernie is the second from the front and helped build the diving boards and scared Sister Rachael half to death with a snake. Jeanie, his sister is the back one and she was always in on all the evil deeds.
Back left to right
Marie, Alan, Norma
Doris and David
Story 5 Our Souls
Before we joined the Baptist Church, Mom sent us kids to a little white church in Columbia Falls. It was a Pentecostal Church of God. The pastor was Brother Arthur, his wife was Sister Mabel, and Mable's sister, was Sister Rachel. These were fine reserved people, who put up with us kids for the sake of our souls.
They lived near Fortine on a Christmas tree farm isolated in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. A main cabin and several small cabins for bunk houses served for their living quarters. I can close my eyes and see it plain as day; the hilly land around the cabins cleared of timber, small brush covered the ground, and muddy clay soil.
Brother Arthur invited us kids to stay for several weeks in the summertime. Us kids included Jeanie, Bernie, Norma and myself. We had great fun up there, way out in the boon docks. Creek fishing was the top priority. We caught many small Brookies and Sister Mable fried them for us.
Other wildlife abounded, like pine squirrels and fat gophers, whitetail deer, and blue birds. And snakes. The ones we spotted slithering near rocks or rushing in the weeds along the creek banks were only small garter snakes, but one in particular caused such a commotion you would not believe.
Norma, Bernie and Jeanie spied this snake down by a big mud puddle, warming itself on the hot clay. With nothing better to do they decided to see if they could kill it with mud clods, which were rock hard.
I innocently stood by and watched the three of them throw missiles until Bernie finally clunked it hard enough that it died. Dead. Didn't move.
Norma poked it with a stick. "Yep it's breathed its last on this here earth. Ya know, Sister Rachel is scared of snakes. Bet she'd be glad we killed one."
"Bet she would," agreed Bernie.
"Should we show her?" asked Jeanie. "Who's going to pick it up?"
Norma shook her head, plump pigtails waving. "I'm not scared of them anymore, but I'm not touching its scaley skin." She jiggled her shoulders as if freeing the thought.
"Oh you babies," said Bernie. "I'll do it." He got a long stick and picked the snake up, dangling it in the middle. We all marched to the main cabin where Sister Rachel and Sister Mabel fixed food.
Bernie, Jeanie and Norma traipsed into the cabin, "Look what we got." About that time the snake decided it was not dead and wiggled off the stick! I was standing back and could barely see what happened. Norma screamed at the top of her lungs, Jeanie ran toward the door, Sister Mabel stood on a chair, Sister Rachel was practically in a dead faint standing on the couch. On his hand and knees, Bernie tried to catch the snake, who slithered this way and that trying very hard to get away.
Screeching and screaming erupted, enough to bring the roof down! Bernie finally caught the poor thing and carried it outside.
Sister Rachel slumped down on the couch. Her long brown hair hung around her bent head. "I just can't believe it," she repeated several times to no one in particular. Her stress showed around her white pinched lips. She had a little trouble with forgiveness that day.
Brother Arthur and Sister Mable moved on, and we weren't attending a church. Mom wanted us kids to hear the word of the Lord and by gum we were going to go. She convinced Dad that we should join the First Baptist Church and go as a family.
I remember the day Dad was baptized. He got dunked in Lake Blaine by Pastor Warner. It was a grand day for my parents. They were very happy.
Our family became churchie.
Before we joined the Baptist Church, Mom sent us kids to a little white church in Columbia Falls. It was a Pentecostal Church of God. The pastor was Brother Arthur, his wife was Sister Mabel, and Mable's sister, was Sister Rachel. These were fine reserved people, who put up with us kids for the sake of our souls.
They lived near Fortine on a Christmas tree farm isolated in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. A main cabin and several small cabins for bunk houses served for their living quarters. I can close my eyes and see it plain as day; the hilly land around the cabins cleared of timber, small brush covered the ground, and muddy clay soil.
Brother Arthur invited us kids to stay for several weeks in the summertime. Us kids included Jeanie, Bernie, Norma and myself. We had great fun up there, way out in the boon docks. Creek fishing was the top priority. We caught many small Brookies and Sister Mable fried them for us.
Other wildlife abounded, like pine squirrels and fat gophers, whitetail deer, and blue birds. And snakes. The ones we spotted slithering near rocks or rushing in the weeds along the creek banks were only small garter snakes, but one in particular caused such a commotion you would not believe.
Norma, Bernie and Jeanie spied this snake down by a big mud puddle, warming itself on the hot clay. With nothing better to do they decided to see if they could kill it with mud clods, which were rock hard.
I innocently stood by and watched the three of them throw missiles until Bernie finally clunked it hard enough that it died. Dead. Didn't move.
Norma poked it with a stick. "Yep it's breathed its last on this here earth. Ya know, Sister Rachel is scared of snakes. Bet she'd be glad we killed one."
"Bet she would," agreed Bernie.
"Should we show her?" asked Jeanie. "Who's going to pick it up?"
Norma shook her head, plump pigtails waving. "I'm not scared of them anymore, but I'm not touching its scaley skin." She jiggled her shoulders as if freeing the thought.
"Oh you babies," said Bernie. "I'll do it." He got a long stick and picked the snake up, dangling it in the middle. We all marched to the main cabin where Sister Rachel and Sister Mabel fixed food.
Bernie, Jeanie and Norma traipsed into the cabin, "Look what we got." About that time the snake decided it was not dead and wiggled off the stick! I was standing back and could barely see what happened. Norma screamed at the top of her lungs, Jeanie ran toward the door, Sister Mabel stood on a chair, Sister Rachel was practically in a dead faint standing on the couch. On his hand and knees, Bernie tried to catch the snake, who slithered this way and that trying very hard to get away.
Screeching and screaming erupted, enough to bring the roof down! Bernie finally caught the poor thing and carried it outside.
Sister Rachel slumped down on the couch. Her long brown hair hung around her bent head. "I just can't believe it," she repeated several times to no one in particular. Her stress showed around her white pinched lips. She had a little trouble with forgiveness that day.
Brother Arthur and Sister Mable moved on, and we weren't attending a church. Mom wanted us kids to hear the word of the Lord and by gum we were going to go. She convinced Dad that we should join the First Baptist Church and go as a family.
I remember the day Dad was baptized. He got dunked in Lake Blaine by Pastor Warner. It was a grand day for my parents. They were very happy.
Our family became churchie.
Grandpa Yeats, Norma and me
Story 6 Ice Cream
Bars
Grandpa Yeats, a tall straight man, looked exactly what a farmer should in his bibbed overalls and straw work hat. His chest barreled under wide shoulders, and his hair was white with a bald top. He smiled the kindest smile I ever saw. His patience with farm animals and grandchildren was eternal.
As my sister Norma and I roamed all over the two-hundred acre farm with Charmall, his daughter from a second marriage, we knew he was always there tending the animals or fields or buildings. We just gave a yell and his answering call guided us to where he worked. We played by ourselves for hours on end, but never felt alone.
Grandpa set very few limits on us as we traveled between the creek and the farm buildings seeking to entertain ourselves. His only real no-no was not to ride the calves. This bugged Norma as all forbidden things did.
We were at the farm one evening for milking and were instructed to feed the calves. We filled the galvanized nursing buckets with foamy warm milk and carried them through the barn to the slat and wire gate of the calf pen.
"I'm gonna ride one of the calves," Norma whispered to me.
"No," I whispered back, "You hadn't better. Grandpa told us never to do that."
"Oh, you sissy. You never want to do anything, besides he'll never know unless you squeal on me." Her eyes dared me to try and tell anything on her. "You can hold it's head while I get on."
We set our buckets down carefully because we knew better to get dirt on the rubber nipple or to spill any milk. Norma slid back the handle and opened the gate.
I dipped my fingers into the milk and held them toward the nearest calf. His perfectly white face leaned to the smell of milk and he came nearer. Quickly I grabbed him around the neck and held on for dear life while Norma straddled his back.
I let go.
The calf's eyes glazed in panic, his body quivered and his sturdy legs trembled. Norma kicked him in the ribs and held one hand high in the air. The calf jumped straight up arching it's back, then fish-tailed coming down at full speed. He tore around the pen. Norma landed seat first on the mucky ground.
"What are you girls doing?" asked Grandpa's stern voice. Instantaneously we jumped, then held down our heads. "Both of you go home right now!"
"I'm sorry, Grandpa," I said as we passed by.
"Sorry doesn't help that calf one bit." He picked up the bucket and came into the pen holding the gate open for us to leave. And we did. We scurried through the barn yard, down the lane, across LaSalle Highway and onto our gravel road.
The two-mile walk home stretched ahead, but neither of us felt in any hurry to get there. I for sure didn't want Norma to tell Mom what we did.
"Are you going to tell Mom?" I asked.
"Are you nuts, of course not?"
"What if Grandpa tells her?"
"He won't."
I wasn't so sure. He seemed awfully mad. We followed the road around a bend, up a short hill, past Westry's farm, then by the Catholic cemetery and to the back part of our ten acres. The sun sank below Dollar Hill as we ran the length of our property through clump grass and alfalfa and into the house. Mom was setting the table when we arrived.
"I thought you were spending the night with Charmall in the barn," she said.
"Naw," answered Norma, "we decided not to."
"I see," said Mom.
The next day Grandpa's old farm truck pulled into our yard and I knew we were dead, but he only wanted to know if we were going to ride into Whitefish with him for the weekly cream delivery. Norma and I climbed into the back of his old truck joining, Charmall and her sister. The ten miles of asphalt sped by as we hung on tight with wind blowing in our faces. We were going to town.
The creamery, a clean white place, smelled like cream or ice cream I should say. Grandpa always bought us kids an ice cream bar. And he did that day too even after our crime, never once mentioning it. The ice cream tasted even more wonderful.
When we got home, I found Mom in the garden hoeing the carrots.
"Mom," I said, "Norma rode one of Grandpa's calves yesterday and I helped her."
"What did Grandpa say?" Mom straightened and looked at me.
"He just told us to go home, but I could tell he was really mad."
"Did you tell him you were sorry?"
"Yes, but he said sorry didn't do the calf any good."
"Did it?"
I shook my head. "I couldn't believe he came for us. He even bought us an ice cream bar just like always."
"Honey," said Mom, "you know your grandfather loves you kids. When someone loves you, they don't stay mad."
Story 7 Lost and Found
Cancer is such an awful word. I was in the fifth grade when I learned it. My wonderful Grandpa Yeats had cancer. It started with a sore on his lip that never healed. It spread down his throat and killed him.
On the day Mom allowed me to visit him, I slipped quietly inside his bedroom and stood gaping at him. My big powerful grandfather had shriveled to skin and bones. He moaned from pain. I blinked several times as I stared.
His eyes fluttered, then opened. They were haunted with pain as he stared back at me. He reached out his thin white arm and tried to grab my skirt. He missed by just a little.
"Get me a knife," he said, in a voice I could barely hear. He said it again.
I fled to Mom.
"Grandpa wants me to bring him a knife."
"Oh, Honey." Mom sighed and silently spoke to me with her eyes.
"What does he want it for?" I asked.
"He is out of his mind with pain and don't you ever take him one."
Grandpa died in the dry-hot summer. We buried him in his cemetery plot just up the highway from our house. He had bought a six-person plot, and right smack dab in the center was a giant Bull Pine tree. A man's tree. Sturdy trunk, strong branches and large tufts of long pine needles for muscles.
Grandpa's tombstone sat at the base of the tree, leaning toward it, as if trying to draw life from it. I used to sit under that tree and wile away the hours, contemplating life and who had done what to me. The cemetery was wild and overgrown. No mowed grass or sprinklers. A perfect spot.
I would run my fingers through the dry, sandy soil piling it into little mounds for foundations for the dry pine needle houses I built. Then I would brush away the needles and carefully pat it all smooth again. Planted in that sandy soil were two strong enduring forces, the roots of the tree and the roots of my family.
Grandpa Yeats, a tall straight man, looked exactly what a farmer should in his bibbed overalls and straw work hat. His chest barreled under wide shoulders, and his hair was white with a bald top. He smiled the kindest smile I ever saw. His patience with farm animals and grandchildren was eternal.
As my sister Norma and I roamed all over the two-hundred acre farm with Charmall, his daughter from a second marriage, we knew he was always there tending the animals or fields or buildings. We just gave a yell and his answering call guided us to where he worked. We played by ourselves for hours on end, but never felt alone.
Grandpa set very few limits on us as we traveled between the creek and the farm buildings seeking to entertain ourselves. His only real no-no was not to ride the calves. This bugged Norma as all forbidden things did.
We were at the farm one evening for milking and were instructed to feed the calves. We filled the galvanized nursing buckets with foamy warm milk and carried them through the barn to the slat and wire gate of the calf pen.
"I'm gonna ride one of the calves," Norma whispered to me.
"No," I whispered back, "You hadn't better. Grandpa told us never to do that."
"Oh, you sissy. You never want to do anything, besides he'll never know unless you squeal on me." Her eyes dared me to try and tell anything on her. "You can hold it's head while I get on."
We set our buckets down carefully because we knew better to get dirt on the rubber nipple or to spill any milk. Norma slid back the handle and opened the gate.
I dipped my fingers into the milk and held them toward the nearest calf. His perfectly white face leaned to the smell of milk and he came nearer. Quickly I grabbed him around the neck and held on for dear life while Norma straddled his back.
I let go.
The calf's eyes glazed in panic, his body quivered and his sturdy legs trembled. Norma kicked him in the ribs and held one hand high in the air. The calf jumped straight up arching it's back, then fish-tailed coming down at full speed. He tore around the pen. Norma landed seat first on the mucky ground.
"What are you girls doing?" asked Grandpa's stern voice. Instantaneously we jumped, then held down our heads. "Both of you go home right now!"
"I'm sorry, Grandpa," I said as we passed by.
"Sorry doesn't help that calf one bit." He picked up the bucket and came into the pen holding the gate open for us to leave. And we did. We scurried through the barn yard, down the lane, across LaSalle Highway and onto our gravel road.
The two-mile walk home stretched ahead, but neither of us felt in any hurry to get there. I for sure didn't want Norma to tell Mom what we did.
"Are you going to tell Mom?" I asked.
"Are you nuts, of course not?"
"What if Grandpa tells her?"
"He won't."
I wasn't so sure. He seemed awfully mad. We followed the road around a bend, up a short hill, past Westry's farm, then by the Catholic cemetery and to the back part of our ten acres. The sun sank below Dollar Hill as we ran the length of our property through clump grass and alfalfa and into the house. Mom was setting the table when we arrived.
"I thought you were spending the night with Charmall in the barn," she said.
"Naw," answered Norma, "we decided not to."
"I see," said Mom.
The next day Grandpa's old farm truck pulled into our yard and I knew we were dead, but he only wanted to know if we were going to ride into Whitefish with him for the weekly cream delivery. Norma and I climbed into the back of his old truck joining, Charmall and her sister. The ten miles of asphalt sped by as we hung on tight with wind blowing in our faces. We were going to town.
The creamery, a clean white place, smelled like cream or ice cream I should say. Grandpa always bought us kids an ice cream bar. And he did that day too even after our crime, never once mentioning it. The ice cream tasted even more wonderful.
When we got home, I found Mom in the garden hoeing the carrots.
"Mom," I said, "Norma rode one of Grandpa's calves yesterday and I helped her."
"What did Grandpa say?" Mom straightened and looked at me.
"He just told us to go home, but I could tell he was really mad."
"Did you tell him you were sorry?"
"Yes, but he said sorry didn't do the calf any good."
"Did it?"
I shook my head. "I couldn't believe he came for us. He even bought us an ice cream bar just like always."
"Honey," said Mom, "you know your grandfather loves you kids. When someone loves you, they don't stay mad."
Story 7 Lost and Found
Cancer is such an awful word. I was in the fifth grade when I learned it. My wonderful Grandpa Yeats had cancer. It started with a sore on his lip that never healed. It spread down his throat and killed him.
On the day Mom allowed me to visit him, I slipped quietly inside his bedroom and stood gaping at him. My big powerful grandfather had shriveled to skin and bones. He moaned from pain. I blinked several times as I stared.
His eyes fluttered, then opened. They were haunted with pain as he stared back at me. He reached out his thin white arm and tried to grab my skirt. He missed by just a little.
"Get me a knife," he said, in a voice I could barely hear. He said it again.
I fled to Mom.
"Grandpa wants me to bring him a knife."
"Oh, Honey." Mom sighed and silently spoke to me with her eyes.
"What does he want it for?" I asked.
"He is out of his mind with pain and don't you ever take him one."
Grandpa died in the dry-hot summer. We buried him in his cemetery plot just up the highway from our house. He had bought a six-person plot, and right smack dab in the center was a giant Bull Pine tree. A man's tree. Sturdy trunk, strong branches and large tufts of long pine needles for muscles.
Grandpa's tombstone sat at the base of the tree, leaning toward it, as if trying to draw life from it. I used to sit under that tree and wile away the hours, contemplating life and who had done what to me. The cemetery was wild and overgrown. No mowed grass or sprinklers. A perfect spot.
I would run my fingers through the dry, sandy soil piling it into little mounds for foundations for the dry pine needle houses I built. Then I would brush away the needles and carefully pat it all smooth again. Planted in that sandy soil were two strong enduring forces, the roots of the tree and the roots of my family.
Grandma Lizzy
Story 8, Green
Beans
The summer Grandpa died, I found a grandma. My father's family planned a reunion at the home ranch and we were going. Finally, I would get to meet my Grandma Lizzy. I saw her a couple of times when I was little, but that didn't count. Both my best friends, Barb and Rose had really neat grandmas and I didn't have any that I knew.
We packed the old chevy full of stuff seven people needed for a four-day weekend and began the two-hundred mile trip east through the Rocky Mountains on a narrow curving road.
We traveled around the Devil's Elbow, across the Continental Divide, down into the Blackfoot Indian Reservation at Browning, then on across the high-line of northern Montana. At Rudyard, we turned north toward the Canadian border and the isolated homestead where Dad was raised.
Norma and I were all excited about going to the ranch and seeing all the cousins. I didn't know I had so many. When we got out of the car, they were everywhere. An amazing amount of people with the bond of blood.
Friendly and outgoing, Norma fit right in with them. I was shy. She was strong, stocky, and dark rich in coloring. I was willowy, dishwater blonde and freckled. She was handsome and I was only ordinary.
The ranch house sat on flat land above deep coolies where the Milk River wound it's way through their bottom separating the ranch from Canada. With a beauty all their own, sage brush, clump grass, and low flat cacti covered the ground, all either tan or brown.
The next morning I overheard Norma and the older cousins planning a horse riding expedition and I wanted to go.
"No," said Norma, "you are way too young to ride the ranch horses." That settled that. Her word was law. I sat by myself on the porch step and watched them ride by laughing and excited as they guided their horse down the narrow trail to the bottom of the coolies.
I went inside and found Grandma Lizzy in her kitchen. This, my only living grandma, was strange to me. She was short, wide and walked with a limp. A hearing-aid poked in her ear had a wire running down inside the neck of her gingham house dress, and she smelled old. I liked her friendly smile.
"I could use someone to chat with," she said. "Sit down and snap those green beans for me." I looked at the dish pan filled with beans and obeyed.
"Grandma Lizzy," I asked as my pile of snapped beans grew on the table, "is it really true you had a hamburger stand?"
"Um-hum."
"Out here on the prairies?"
Her pale blue eyes searched my hazel ones as she nodded.
"Yep," she said, "I did. It was back in '28, '29 and '30 that your grandpa put on a rodeo every forth of July."
"A rodeo?"
"Yep, he invited people from all around. They came by the cars full. Pa had them park in a big circle. That made a nice arena. He provided the bucking horses and steers for roping."
"Why did he do it?"
"To earn cash money." She tilted slightly back on her maple chair. Her face lined with a mole on her chin. It had a coarse center hair. She seemed tired as she continued, "We did everything we could to earn it."
"Tell me about the hamburger stand."
Her eyes twinkled. "First, I'd butcher me a cow, grind the whole thing into hamburger to make patties. I took them to Goldstone on the day of the rodeo, set up my stand next to Warhank's store so I could have electricity for the hot plates"
"Where did you get the stand?"
"The boys made it. The front was open -- you know, like the firecracker stands are. They made it just big enough for me and my cooking things. I sold the hamburgers for twenty-five cents each. I made good cash money, but let me tell you it was hard hot work inside that stand and the horse flies were awful. Sometimes I wonder how I did it."
I looked at that tiny old lady and wondered too, but then her eyes held mine tight and I knew. Those eyes still held the fiestyness of her youth. My dad had the same eyes.
"Who rode the bucking horses?"
"Cow hands and Indians from the Rocky Boy Reservation. Those indians could really ride those bucking broncos. My boys, Donald and Laverne, could ride 'em real good too."
I pushed my pile of snapped beans further into the middle of the table to make room for more. From the dish pan, I poured Grandma Lizzy another lap full and refilled my lap.
"Did you have Fourth of July fireworks for the rodeo?" I picked up another bean with my tired fingers.
"No, we just had bucking horses and drunken Indians."
I blinked. Nobody ever mentioned drunken anything to me before so naturally I asked, "How'd they get drunk?"
"I'm not sure," she said. "Could be that Pa sold them some Canadian beer." She paused and rubbed her nose. "The border patrolman checked on Pa every chance he got to see if he could catch Pa with bootleg beer or whiskey, but he never found it. Every now and then he stopped by when it was late in the day and spend the night. He always hung his gun on the front porch before coming into the house. I always gave him a good supper with a big glass of cold buttermilk. He loved my buttermilk. The next morning he would continue on his way, patrolling the district and snooping in folk's business."
She snapped a few beans while thinking.
"One time he caught your Uncle Cecil pelting beavers and confiscated all twenty of them. That made me darn mad. The hide money would have bought winter shoes for the kids."
Grandma Lizzy's face set in a hard line. "I fed him good, and he paid me back by poking his nose in everywhere. Always checking for bootleg whiskey, then he found them turkeys."
"Turkeys?"
"Thirty dressed turkeys cost Pa his brand new 1936 Ford pickup."
"What?"
"Yep, thirty turkeys caused a great commotion. I told you old man Warhank owned the store in Goldstone?"
I nodded.
"He wanted Pa to pick up thirty dressed turkeys and bring them over the border for him. Warhank wanted to sell them in the store and everything was just fine until that nosy border patrolman happened into the store. He demanded to know where the turkeys came from. We figured Warhank squealed on Pa to get himself off the hook."
"That wasn't very nice," I interrupted.
"No, it wasn't. When the border patrolman showed up at the ranch, he told us he had to confiscate our brand new 1936 Ford pickup, because it transported illegal turkeys. I hit the ceiling. I went out and got in the pickup. I flat told him that nobody was taking my pickup anywhere. I paid seven hundred cash dollars for it, and NOBODY IS TAKING IT ANYWHERE!"
I stared at my grandmother
Fire and anger crackled in her eyes. "The border patrolman ended up with the pickup. Pa ended up with a very mad wife, and old man Warhank ended up Scott free."
A chuckle grew in my grandmother, from deep inside. It burst like birds from a nest, swoosh and free, a melody clear and sweet. I hoped some day I would laugh like that.
She wiped her eyes. "After that when the border patrolman came by and spent the night, he no longer hung his gun on the porch, he kept it on."
We snapped the last of the green beans. When I heard the cousins come riding back into the farm yard, I smiled secretly to myself. Norma may have gone for the ride, but I had found a Grandma.
The summer Grandpa died, I found a grandma. My father's family planned a reunion at the home ranch and we were going. Finally, I would get to meet my Grandma Lizzy. I saw her a couple of times when I was little, but that didn't count. Both my best friends, Barb and Rose had really neat grandmas and I didn't have any that I knew.
We packed the old chevy full of stuff seven people needed for a four-day weekend and began the two-hundred mile trip east through the Rocky Mountains on a narrow curving road.
We traveled around the Devil's Elbow, across the Continental Divide, down into the Blackfoot Indian Reservation at Browning, then on across the high-line of northern Montana. At Rudyard, we turned north toward the Canadian border and the isolated homestead where Dad was raised.
Norma and I were all excited about going to the ranch and seeing all the cousins. I didn't know I had so many. When we got out of the car, they were everywhere. An amazing amount of people with the bond of blood.
Friendly and outgoing, Norma fit right in with them. I was shy. She was strong, stocky, and dark rich in coloring. I was willowy, dishwater blonde and freckled. She was handsome and I was only ordinary.
The ranch house sat on flat land above deep coolies where the Milk River wound it's way through their bottom separating the ranch from Canada. With a beauty all their own, sage brush, clump grass, and low flat cacti covered the ground, all either tan or brown.
The next morning I overheard Norma and the older cousins planning a horse riding expedition and I wanted to go.
"No," said Norma, "you are way too young to ride the ranch horses." That settled that. Her word was law. I sat by myself on the porch step and watched them ride by laughing and excited as they guided their horse down the narrow trail to the bottom of the coolies.
I went inside and found Grandma Lizzy in her kitchen. This, my only living grandma, was strange to me. She was short, wide and walked with a limp. A hearing-aid poked in her ear had a wire running down inside the neck of her gingham house dress, and she smelled old. I liked her friendly smile.
"I could use someone to chat with," she said. "Sit down and snap those green beans for me." I looked at the dish pan filled with beans and obeyed.
"Grandma Lizzy," I asked as my pile of snapped beans grew on the table, "is it really true you had a hamburger stand?"
"Um-hum."
"Out here on the prairies?"
Her pale blue eyes searched my hazel ones as she nodded.
"Yep," she said, "I did. It was back in '28, '29 and '30 that your grandpa put on a rodeo every forth of July."
"A rodeo?"
"Yep, he invited people from all around. They came by the cars full. Pa had them park in a big circle. That made a nice arena. He provided the bucking horses and steers for roping."
"Why did he do it?"
"To earn cash money." She tilted slightly back on her maple chair. Her face lined with a mole on her chin. It had a coarse center hair. She seemed tired as she continued, "We did everything we could to earn it."
"Tell me about the hamburger stand."
Her eyes twinkled. "First, I'd butcher me a cow, grind the whole thing into hamburger to make patties. I took them to Goldstone on the day of the rodeo, set up my stand next to Warhank's store so I could have electricity for the hot plates"
"Where did you get the stand?"
"The boys made it. The front was open -- you know, like the firecracker stands are. They made it just big enough for me and my cooking things. I sold the hamburgers for twenty-five cents each. I made good cash money, but let me tell you it was hard hot work inside that stand and the horse flies were awful. Sometimes I wonder how I did it."
I looked at that tiny old lady and wondered too, but then her eyes held mine tight and I knew. Those eyes still held the fiestyness of her youth. My dad had the same eyes.
"Who rode the bucking horses?"
"Cow hands and Indians from the Rocky Boy Reservation. Those indians could really ride those bucking broncos. My boys, Donald and Laverne, could ride 'em real good too."
I pushed my pile of snapped beans further into the middle of the table to make room for more. From the dish pan, I poured Grandma Lizzy another lap full and refilled my lap.
"Did you have Fourth of July fireworks for the rodeo?" I picked up another bean with my tired fingers.
"No, we just had bucking horses and drunken Indians."
I blinked. Nobody ever mentioned drunken anything to me before so naturally I asked, "How'd they get drunk?"
"I'm not sure," she said. "Could be that Pa sold them some Canadian beer." She paused and rubbed her nose. "The border patrolman checked on Pa every chance he got to see if he could catch Pa with bootleg beer or whiskey, but he never found it. Every now and then he stopped by when it was late in the day and spend the night. He always hung his gun on the front porch before coming into the house. I always gave him a good supper with a big glass of cold buttermilk. He loved my buttermilk. The next morning he would continue on his way, patrolling the district and snooping in folk's business."
She snapped a few beans while thinking.
"One time he caught your Uncle Cecil pelting beavers and confiscated all twenty of them. That made me darn mad. The hide money would have bought winter shoes for the kids."
Grandma Lizzy's face set in a hard line. "I fed him good, and he paid me back by poking his nose in everywhere. Always checking for bootleg whiskey, then he found them turkeys."
"Turkeys?"
"Thirty dressed turkeys cost Pa his brand new 1936 Ford pickup."
"What?"
"Yep, thirty turkeys caused a great commotion. I told you old man Warhank owned the store in Goldstone?"
I nodded.
"He wanted Pa to pick up thirty dressed turkeys and bring them over the border for him. Warhank wanted to sell them in the store and everything was just fine until that nosy border patrolman happened into the store. He demanded to know where the turkeys came from. We figured Warhank squealed on Pa to get himself off the hook."
"That wasn't very nice," I interrupted.
"No, it wasn't. When the border patrolman showed up at the ranch, he told us he had to confiscate our brand new 1936 Ford pickup, because it transported illegal turkeys. I hit the ceiling. I went out and got in the pickup. I flat told him that nobody was taking my pickup anywhere. I paid seven hundred cash dollars for it, and NOBODY IS TAKING IT ANYWHERE!"
I stared at my grandmother
Fire and anger crackled in her eyes. "The border patrolman ended up with the pickup. Pa ended up with a very mad wife, and old man Warhank ended up Scott free."
A chuckle grew in my grandmother, from deep inside. It burst like birds from a nest, swoosh and free, a melody clear and sweet. I hoped some day I would laugh like that.
She wiped her eyes. "After that when the border patrolman came by and spent the night, he no longer hung his gun on the porch, he kept it on."
We snapped the last of the green beans. When I heard the cousins come riding back into the farm yard, I smiled secretly to myself. Norma may have gone for the ride, but I had found a Grandma.
Clarence, the shooter
Story 9 "The
Shooter"
Our neighborhood changed some. The Grileys moved shortly after Norma lined all of us barefoot kids up and shot each one on the top of their foot with a BB gun to see if it hurt. Grileys sold their house to an old couple. She was dying of cancer. Mom was a good neighbor to them, but us kids ignored them until the evening Mr. McFadden knocked on our door and wanted to talk with Dad.
"Clarence," he said, "you got to do something about those rabbits." His huge frame filled our doorway.
"What rabbits?" asked Dad.
"You know darn good and well what rabbits. You're the one who opened his hutches last fall and turned them loose."
"How do you know I did it?"
"I asked that oldest daughter of yours if she knew how all the rabbits got all over the place." His natural scowl deepened. "She told me you turned them loose because your kids weren't taking care of them like they promised."
Dad drew his five-foot, seven-inch frame to its fullest height. "I'll take care of it," he said.
"You'd better, because my whole shed is undermined. I don't want'em to start on the house. There must be fifty of 'em under there. How many did you turn loose?"
"Only a few. I wanted to butcher them, but the wife said the kids wouldn't eat them. Well, they're going to now."
"Where's Norma?" Dad asked me after he shut the door.
"I don't know," I answered, "but how are you going to catch them?"
"I'm not going to catch them, I'm going to shoot them." He headed toward the kitchen.
"But Dad they sleep all day and only come out at night."
He turned. "Marie, I don't have time for your questions. I'll spotlight them with a flashlight."
My face fell. "That's awful. What if you only wound them."
Dad's frown lessened. He leaned against the doorjamb to the kitchen.
"I won't wound an animal or leave one hurt. At the ranch when I was a boy I learned how to shoot real good. Pa gave us all a particular job. I was the shooter."
"The shooter?"
"Yes, that was my job. Everything that needed shooting I had to do it." Dad scratched his head. "You know like cattle and hogs for butchering." His voice faded a little as he added, "One time I had to shoot a little white horse."
Quiet, I waited for my father to continue.
He seemed to slumped a little against the knotty-pine wall.
"Her name was Cricket. A small little thing for a race horse, but fast, real fast. No horse could beat her."
"Did you race her?"
"Yes, at the rodeos Pa held. She never did get beat. Me and my brothers earned cash money betting on her. One day when Harvey rode her, she stepped into a badger hole and broke her leg. I had to shoot that little white horse." Dad rubbed the side of his jaw. He'd said all he could about shooting and horses.
I watched after him as he walked into the kitchen. I heard him ask Mom, "Where's Norma?"
That night I watched from my upstairs bedroom window as Dad and a couple of neighbor men shined flashlights and shot rabbits. I jerked a little as each shot rang out in the dark. We ate rabbit several times a week for months. I hated it. I was secretly delighted every time I saw a rabbit dart into a bush or under a shed.
At least that one got away.
Our neighborhood changed some. The Grileys moved shortly after Norma lined all of us barefoot kids up and shot each one on the top of their foot with a BB gun to see if it hurt. Grileys sold their house to an old couple. She was dying of cancer. Mom was a good neighbor to them, but us kids ignored them until the evening Mr. McFadden knocked on our door and wanted to talk with Dad.
"Clarence," he said, "you got to do something about those rabbits." His huge frame filled our doorway.
"What rabbits?" asked Dad.
"You know darn good and well what rabbits. You're the one who opened his hutches last fall and turned them loose."
"How do you know I did it?"
"I asked that oldest daughter of yours if she knew how all the rabbits got all over the place." His natural scowl deepened. "She told me you turned them loose because your kids weren't taking care of them like they promised."
Dad drew his five-foot, seven-inch frame to its fullest height. "I'll take care of it," he said.
"You'd better, because my whole shed is undermined. I don't want'em to start on the house. There must be fifty of 'em under there. How many did you turn loose?"
"Only a few. I wanted to butcher them, but the wife said the kids wouldn't eat them. Well, they're going to now."
"Where's Norma?" Dad asked me after he shut the door.
"I don't know," I answered, "but how are you going to catch them?"
"I'm not going to catch them, I'm going to shoot them." He headed toward the kitchen.
"But Dad they sleep all day and only come out at night."
He turned. "Marie, I don't have time for your questions. I'll spotlight them with a flashlight."
My face fell. "That's awful. What if you only wound them."
Dad's frown lessened. He leaned against the doorjamb to the kitchen.
"I won't wound an animal or leave one hurt. At the ranch when I was a boy I learned how to shoot real good. Pa gave us all a particular job. I was the shooter."
"The shooter?"
"Yes, that was my job. Everything that needed shooting I had to do it." Dad scratched his head. "You know like cattle and hogs for butchering." His voice faded a little as he added, "One time I had to shoot a little white horse."
Quiet, I waited for my father to continue.
He seemed to slumped a little against the knotty-pine wall.
"Her name was Cricket. A small little thing for a race horse, but fast, real fast. No horse could beat her."
"Did you race her?"
"Yes, at the rodeos Pa held. She never did get beat. Me and my brothers earned cash money betting on her. One day when Harvey rode her, she stepped into a badger hole and broke her leg. I had to shoot that little white horse." Dad rubbed the side of his jaw. He'd said all he could about shooting and horses.
I watched after him as he walked into the kitchen. I heard him ask Mom, "Where's Norma?"
That night I watched from my upstairs bedroom window as Dad and a couple of neighbor men shined flashlights and shot rabbits. I jerked a little as each shot rang out in the dark. We ate rabbit several times a week for months. I hated it. I was secretly delighted every time I saw a rabbit dart into a bush or under a shed.
At least that one got away.
Alan
Story 10 Butterhead
My younger brothers and sister started to become people. Alan, the oldest, grew strong and agile. Norma now allowed him to play with us--if we needed him. She loved baseball and let Alan fill a place in right field when we played pasture baseball with the local boys. She pitched and hit with the best of them.
Alan even got to fish with us now. He dug fishing worms with great ease and he could also carry lumber for our forts. Why he wanted to play with us, I'll never know. He must have felt like an abused child and not only from Norma and me, but our mother.
One day, Mom stood at the kitchen cupboard, squeezing a plastic bag of margarine. The red-orange dye slowly worked through the white Oleo making it yellow.
Alan trooped through the kitchen on his way outside. As he went by, Mom playfully reached out and tapped the top of his head with the margarine bag. To Mom's surprise, it split. Alan stood there with orange and yellow streaked Oleo running down his head. After that his name became Butter-Head Alan anytime Norma was aggravated with him.
My younger brothers and sister started to become people. Alan, the oldest, grew strong and agile. Norma now allowed him to play with us--if we needed him. She loved baseball and let Alan fill a place in right field when we played pasture baseball with the local boys. She pitched and hit with the best of them.
Alan even got to fish with us now. He dug fishing worms with great ease and he could also carry lumber for our forts. Why he wanted to play with us, I'll never know. He must have felt like an abused child and not only from Norma and me, but our mother.
One day, Mom stood at the kitchen cupboard, squeezing a plastic bag of margarine. The red-orange dye slowly worked through the white Oleo making it yellow.
Alan trooped through the kitchen on his way outside. As he went by, Mom playfully reached out and tapped the top of his head with the margarine bag. To Mom's surprise, it split. Alan stood there with orange and yellow streaked Oleo running down his head. After that his name became Butter-Head Alan anytime Norma was aggravated with him.
Doris and Dave
Story 11 Sassy Mouth
Dad sold the acre of land between us and McFadden's to the Wilsons. Pearl and her husband built a garage and lived in it while they built a house. Their two girls were the same age as my little sister, Doris, and my littlest brother, David. The four of them became instant buddies.
Pearl, a tall rawboned woman, became my mother's great coffee friend. As they sat at each other's kitchen tables, they shared not only coffee, but recipes, gossip, small talk and comfort.
Pearl was kind and loving, but very defensive where her girls were concerned. If anyone picked on them, her temper blazed red hot. Us kids called her Spitfire Pearl.
The summer she was pregnant with her third daughter, the temperature soared. Pearl's temper soared right along with it.
One day while Norma ironed and I washed dishes, the front door flew open with a bang. We heard hard-running feet. Doris and Davy flew through the living room, then the dining room, then by Norma at the ironing board, past me at the sink and then with a great slam, out the back door they went!
Hot on their heels was Pearl with a stick!
Norma stared at me with arched eyebrows. "Wonder what sin they committed?"
I shrugged. "Don't know."
"I'm going to find out." Norma headed for the door. I was hot on her heels.
Pearl had Doris and Davy cornered out by a shed. She stood there with her chest heaving and her frumpy house dress pulled tight across her pregnant stomach. Her long knobby-kneed legs were planted wide. She shook the stick at Doris.
"What did they do?" Brave Norma asked.
Pearl turned. "Doris told me I couldn't do anything about her teasing my girls." She turned back to mute, frightened Doris. "You still think I can't do anything?"
Doris shook her head hard enough that her pigtails bounced back and forth slapping her in the face.
"I'll take care of Doris' sassy mouth, Pearl," said Norma.
"You'd better, or next time I'll use this stick."
Norma drew to a bigger height. She pinpointed Pearl's eyes. They stood glaring at each another. Pearl went home. Norma grabbed Doris by the arm and drug her inside.
Later Doris told me she liked the taste of soap.
Story 12 Shorty pajammas
By mid August, the summer between my seventh and eighth grade was hot. Scorching dry, hazy days settled over our northern Montana valley. Lakes warmed to a good swimming temperature and our upstairs bedrooms were hot with a Capitol "H".
Norma came up with an exciting plan. We approached Mom.
"Mom, can we have a pajama party in the clump of trees?" asked Norma.
"Who's we?" asked Mom as she kneaded a large batch of bread on the counter.
"Naomi, Florine, Carol, Rose, Janet, Barbara, Marie and me," answered Norma. Pausing for a breath, she continued, "It would be so much fun. They could all bring their sleeping bags, and we could have a picnic supper out there, and we wouldn't be any trouble at all. Can we, Mom, can we? It's so hot upstairs."
Mom poked her fingers deep into the dough and pushed forward. A stray lock of premature gray hair slipped across her eye glasses. She pushed it back avoiding the flour on her hand and turned to us with a weary sigh.
"It is too hot to be baking bread let alone have a house full of your friends,"
"But, Mom," pleaded Norma, "I said we'd stay out in the clump of trees. We wouldn't bother you. Marie and I will cook supper and everything."
I nodded in agreement.
Always the patsie, Mom smiled. "Oh, all right. I guess it won't hurt anything."
Our clump of trees was a small stand of Bull Pine and Spruce located almost at the rear of our ten acres. Norma and I spent the afternoon raking long dry needles into eight mattresses for our sleeping bags. Then we fixed sandwiches and pork and beans and potato chips and some of Mom's fresh cinnamon rolls for supper. We carted the food and sleeping bags out to the trees. Finally we were ready.
"Man, this has been a lot of work," I said as I wiped perspiration from my forehead.
"Yeah," Norma agreed, "but it's worth it. We'll have a blast. I can hardly wait for everyone to get here."
"Me, too."
Norma glanced at the sun in the western part of the sky. "They'll start showing up pretty soon. You know, we ought to plan some games for tonight."
"Okay, what games?"
"I was thinking of a snipe hunt at the cemetery. Come on let's go plan our route." We scooted under the barbed-wire fence that separated our land from the Saddle Club, skirted around the grandstand, then entered the cemetery at the back. While Norma plotted where we'd lead our friends, I walked farther in toward Grandpa's grave.
"Hey, look here," I called when I saw a big pile of dirt. "They must have dug a grave."
Norma wandered over.
We stared down into the empty grave.
"Looks deep," she said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "It gives me the creeps."
Norma walked around the grave. Her dark hair glistened in the sun. Her dark brown eyes gleamed with excitement. "You know what?" she asked.
"What?"
"I could get an old sheet and hide in here tonight." She kicked a clod of dirt with her toe and it fell into the hole. "You could bring the girls for the snipe hunt, and I could rise up like a ghost and scare'em." Norma laughed gleefully. "That would be fun, huh?"
"Are you sure you could do it?" My mind saw possibilities.
"Why not? It's just a dumb hole in the ground." She kicked another clod down into the gaping space.
I watched it gather a few more clods as it rolled down the side. Goose bumps made the hair on my arms rise. "How will you get over here without them knowing?"
Norma scratched behind her ear. "I know, I'll say I have to go to the house for something, then I'll slip around and come in by the highway."
"Okay," I agreed with a smile teasing my lips. The picture of Norma coming up out of that hole brought silent laughter to my mind. I figured that maybe there could be some way to turn this into a good joke on Norma, if I could pull it off.
We went home, got an old sheet and hid it in the shed for a quick pick up by Norma. Then we gathered brown paper bags for the snipes. I slipped a phone call to my bosom buddy, Barbie.
Our friends arrived on their bikes, each carried a sleeping bag in their baskets. Our party began. At the point of almost total darkness, Norma headed to the house with the excuse that Mom needed her for a bit.
"Over on the other side of the Saddle Club grounds are snipes," I explained to Rose, Janet, Naomi, Florine, Carol and Barbie who were sitting on their sleeping bags in their shortie pajamas.
"What's a snipe?" asked Rose.
"They're these little things that only come out at night. They're lots of fun to catch. Do you guys want to try to catch some?"
"It sounds like a blast," said Barbie with a giggle. I looked at her and gave a slight wink.
"Well," said Rose, "I don't want to catch something that I don't know what it is I'm catching."
"I can't describe one," I said. "You'll have to catch one and look inside to see what it is. They are real neat. I just love them."
"I do, too." Barbie's giggle was getting worse. I gave her a shutup look.
"I don't believe there is such a thing," said Naomi.
"Well, seeing is believing and you can't see one unless you catch it first." I can be a convincing innocent person when I want to. They all agreed we should go.
The clear black sky filled with starlight, just enough for us to see each other and where we were going. I herded them under our fence, around the grandstand, across a narrow pasture and to the cemetery fence.
"Come on," I said, "we'll cross under down there by the wild rosebushes."
"Why down there?" asked Rose.
"Because there is a little dip in the ground. It'll be easier to crawl under the barbed wire." And Barbie could slip around to the back without Norma seeing her, I thought, chuckling. I reached down and pulled on the wire as Naomi, Florine, Carol and Barbie crawled under, but this is where Rose drew the line.
"Marie, there ain't no way I'm going into that cemetery," she said.
In the starlight I saw her ruffled shortie pajamas bounce as she shook her finger.
"But you gotta," I said. "That's where the snipes are at."
"For cripes sake, Rose," said Barbie, my ally, "you're such a chicken."
"I am not and I'm not dumb either and this is dumb. It's just plain stupid to go into that cemetery at this time of night."
"Okay," I said, "if you want to stay here by yourself that's all right with me." I scooted under the fence scratching my knees on the dry alfalfa.
"Wait a minute," cried Rose, "I'm coming." I could hear her grunt with the effort of crawling under the fence.
"Shh," I said, "we all have to be quiet or we'll never catch any snipes. Has everybody still got their bags?"
"Yes," said Rose, "where do you think they'd be?"
My fingers itched with a need to choke her, but instead I whispered, "Hold your bags open and close to the ground. Be deathly quiet." I led the way. We slipped past the big Talbott tombstone and on across the cemetery. At my discreet signal, Barbie separated from us and stole behind where Norma waited in the hole.
"What's that," whispered Rose?
"What?" asked Naomi.
"Over there." Rose grabbed her by the arm, pointing.
We stared in the direction she indicated. A light shadow rose slowly from the ground. It stood swaying by a black hump. A low eerie wail emitted from it. I knew it was Norma, but hackles rose on my neck anyway. Suddenly a black form flung itself at the light shadow. I heard a thump and a cry and a grunt and a scream. Six girls screamed in bloodcurdling unison. The screech deafened.
We sprinted pel-mel through the cemetery, past the dark shape of the grandstand, by the clump of trees and toward my house. Rose's scream never quit. It was a mournful wail at a high soprano pitch that joggled as she ran hell bent for the beacon of light coming through the living room window.
Mom and Dad came running out of the house. Mom grabbed Rose as she flew past and held her by the shoulders.
"Stop it, Rose," she ordered.
Rose's scream reduced to crying and sobbing.
Mom's glare found me in the window light.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"There's a ghost in the cemetery," gasped Naomi.
"Mom, there really is," said Norma as she entered the dim light beam. "But it's okay now. It tried to knock me into the grave hole, but I knocked it in instead. It put up quite a struggle, but I finally managed to push it in."
"That was Barbie, you idiot," I whispered. "Where is she now?"
Norma shrugged. "What's the matter with everybody?" she asked. "It was just me and Barbie for crying out loud."
"Everyone into the house," ordered Dad.
Mom called Rose's mother to come get her hysterical daughter.
I went to find Barbie who refused to speak to me and followed mutely back to the house.
Rose's folks came. As they led Rose out the door, she turned to us. "I'll never stay at your house again," she announced, then as she climbed into their car her bottom lip spat out, "EVER!"
The next morning after a night spent on the living room floor, our friends rolled up their sleeping bags and threw them into their bike baskets and pedaled for home.
"Thou shalt be grounded even after death," Mother said to Norma and me.
Story 13 I Got Married
The summer of my sixteenth year was a major turning point. Norma left, and I met Elmer.
Norma graduated from high school and moved to Alaska with Naomi's family to seek her fortune. Her leaving left a considerable hole in our family. I couldn't believe I missed her. I had waited all my life for the day Norma left. Now with her gone the house seemed empty. I had no one to share the household chores or to fight with. Doris was old enough to help, but she was a sly little thing and managed to worm her way out of dishes and ironing.
My two best friends were Barbie and Rose. Both had forgiven me for the snipe hunt after I explained it was all Norma's fault. We spent every hour we could together.
Barbie's father allowed her to use his old 1948 drab olive-green Nash. It was a big clumsy car with a sloping back and lots of chrome. Where ever we went it always brought admiring comments from guys. Their interest provided us with a continuing supply of possible boyfriends.
Early one summer night, Barbie telephoned. "I just talked to Rose and she thinks we ought to go to the drive-in."
"What's playing?"
"Who cares? It's a nice night and my father said we could use the Nash. Want to go?"
"Sure," I answered. "What are you wearing?"
"My white pedal pushers. What else?"
On her way to my house, Barb picked up Rose. By the time they came for me the sun had disappeared behind Dollar Hill. The evening star was visible in the last sun rays as we drove west on Highway 40.
The drive-in theater sat on the north side of a four-corner intersection behind a tall woven-board fence of a drabber green than the Nash.
It took Barbie several tries before she parked the Nash perfectly on the mound by a metal speaker post. The night became blacker as we ate homemade popcorn while waiting for the show to start. The floodlights turned off. The screen filled with previews of coming attractions.
At intermission, the real show for us girls began. Different sets of guys began making their way to the snack bar. Some paused and waved as they passed by, others stopped for a good look at the faithful old Nash.
A threesome of guys wandered by. They paused to gaze in the floodlights at the gleaming chrome. I recognized two of them as classmates. We asked them if they wanted to sit in the back and talk for a while.
They introduced Elmer to us and that was it. I was a goner. I kept stealing quick peeks at him in the muted light from the large screen. Every time our eyes connected and he smiled I melted more. He was blonde and blue-eyed with bulging healthy nineteen-year-old muscles. His rough and tumble attitude seemed very mature.
The next day he called and my life began. Everything before Elmer ceased to be. He took over my every thought and feeling. Nothing mattered but to be with him and I was lost to a world of passion.
"You are entirely too young," said Mom when I explained we wanted to get married, she snuffed in her breath. Dad wouldn't even speak to me. Finally by January they agreed to a wedding.
We were married in the middle of winter. I was sixteen and Elmer was nineteen--so young, but we didn't think so. We rented a tiny two-room apartment in Columbia Falls and moved in after the small wedding.
Pastor Warner married us in my parents living room with family and a few friends. Some of Elmer's relatives were still in Montana and they came, Pearl from next door and of course Barbie and Rose.
The ceremony was nice, anyway I guess it was. I can't remember. I think I was too scared to remember. The wedding scared Elmer, too. In our snapshot-wedding photo he looks dead drunk, but he wasn't, just petrified out of his wits.
Story 14 Grown-up
After setting up house, the first thing I learned was how to make a good cup of coffee and how to inhale cigarettes. These two became constant companions and pulled me through times I needed solace. My choice of drugs.
We had absolutely no idea how to make a marriage work, only finding out after years spent together and many battles. Battles of the immature are terrible. Each thinks they are all grown up and have all the answers like the time Elmer insisted, "I can beat you at Aggravation anytime I want to."
"I don't think so," I answered with an amused chuckle.
"You think you're so smart. Get out the board."
I brought out the homemade board. Elmer had carefully drilled holes for the marbles to sit in and sanded the plywood smooth. We played every evening after his smart-aleck challenge with me consistently winning and laughing.
The more I won the more aggravated Elmer became until past the point of control he tossed the board, marbles and almost me out the door. His fury frightened me. I had never seen anyone that angry over nothing or for that matter something. Our marriage survived the Aggravation game with me learning to keep my mouth shut. We were definitely all grown up and ready for marriage and a baby.
My baby conceived in my passion, born of my blood, died. It is still surreal to me. He was born premature after months spent in bed trying to protect him. I never saw my baby, only a glimpse when a nurse rushed by the delivery table carrying him somewhere. Then they gave me ether.
Later the doctor came. "Your baby died," he whispered in my ear. "I hand pumped air for over an hour, but his lungs were unable to breathe on their own." I could tell he was crying and all I could do was nod.
Elmer came in. We cried together. They had the funeral while I was in the hospital. I stood under Grandpa's bull pine tree and stared my baby's grave on the opposite side of the tree trunk from Grandpa.
"Goodby," I whispered, "Grandpa will take care of you." I knelt down, patted some of the sandy soil into a small mound and built a little dry pine needle house, then left the cemetery arm in arm with Elmer.
Eighteen months later I held my brand new baby Danny in my arms. I tried to nurse him and it hurt.
"This really hurts," I said, glancing at the nurse.
"I know, but your nipples will toughen in a few weeks. In fact your whole skin better toughen because this ain't the only time he'll hurt you." She walked from the room with her white-uniformed butt swishing. I would have liked to kick it. How could anyone think my wonderful, sweet, prefect baby would ever cause me hurt. My life was complete and happy. Almost. Elmer liked his beer and was a little temperamental, but that was all right. He was young and wild.
Story 15 Diapers
The day Elmer and I brought Danny home we found out we didn't know how to raise kids either.
I lay Danny in the middle of my bed, unwrapped the blue receiving blanket and checked for a wet diaper. It was. I opened the package of Penny's bird's-eye diapers and shook one out. It was huge. I looked at Danny's tiny red butt, then back at the diaper and started to cry.
Elmer walked in from the kitchen to check on us and took one look at my wet face and turned white.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I can't fold this small enough," I blubbered.
He blinked. "Well I can." He took the cloth from me, laid it on the bed and whipped up the prefect size. He tucked it under the tiny bottom, pinned it. "You better lay down for a while," he added.
I curled up beside my dry baby and fell sound asleep.
Another eighteen months passed and a daughter was added to our family. We had quite a time agreeing on a name for our tiny daughter. I always wanted to name a baby girl Theresa, but grew tired of it by the time I had a little girl to name. We stared at our daughter trying out different names from a baby book. None of them fit until we came to Deanna.
"I like it," I said. I repeated it several times letting it roll off my tongue. "Yes, I think we found her name."
"Okay," said Elmer, "I'm not particularly thrilled with it, but I can live with it if I can pick out her middle name." He chose Lynn.
"Not bad," I agreed. Our baby girl became Deanna Lynn, known as Sis. Sis never liked her name.
During this time period Elmer worked at different jobs trying to find some way to earn a living without losing his mind while doing it. Sawmills drove him absolute nuts. Pulling lumber from a chain was not what he wanted to do the rest of his life. He worked at every sawmill in the area, but never found one he could stand.
He went to work for a Safeway grocery store just before Danny was born. He learned how to cut meat, but cutting the never-ending slabs of beef was not the job for him either. Elmer decided to move our family to Chanute, Kansas where he was raised. We packed our belongings in huge cardboard boxes and bought one-way train tickets. The day my parents took us to the depot was an unhappy one for them and me. They watched their two small excited grandchildren climb on board the Empire Builder. I knew how they felt as I turned and waved at their two dear sad faces.
"I'll write once a week," I called.
This was my first time to leave the valley. Who knew when we would be back? I said goodbye with my heart as the train carried us through Bad Rock Canyon and entered the Rocky Mountains for the long trip up and over the Continental Divide. Great-grandmother Elsie and Grandma Lizzy may have traveled farther when they followed their husbands to find their home, but my journey was long, too.
We traveled through the rest of Montana in dry flat prairies passing many small grain-elevator towns. The train clicked off Galata, Lothair, Chester, Joplin and at Rudyard I stared at the cemetery as we sped by. Grandma Lizzy was buried there. North Dakota's flatland disappeared as we rode the rails into Minnesota. In amazement at the size of St. Paul where we changed trains, I rode my first escalator. It was not at all fun. We continued south through Iowa and down into Missouri. The countryside splendid with rolling hills and picture-perfect farms. We finally arrived at the Kansas City depot.
"It's so big," I whispered to Elmer clutching Danny and Sis close to my side. He found us a bench to sit on for the three-hour wait. I could only stare. There were dark-skinned people everywhere. In all my life I had seen maybe two or three. I kept my children tucked safely beside me on the bench and didn't move.
"Don't be afraid," said Elmer.
I just gaped at him trying to decide if I would ever forgive him for taking me so far away from home.
We boarded yet another train and arrived in Chanute, Kansas after four days and nights on the different trains. When I stepped down from the train, the ground felt like it moved. I realized this must be how it feels for sailors. While I walked toward Elmer's tall white-haired mother, my sea-legs righted themselves.
I was heartened by her warm and friendly smile.
Story 16 Martin Fit
We came home from Kansas in a 1954 Kelly green Pontiac loaded down with all our worldly possessions, two kids and a two-month-old baby, our David Alan.
About one day out of Chanute my body decided to get sick. A kidney infection set in with a raging fever. Elmer had a sick wife, three small kids, 1500 miles to cover and very little money.
Somehow he got us home to my folks. Mom put me right to bed. She managed to keep a still tongue, but Elmer got the evil eye while she called the doctor. After rest and medicine I was just fine.
Elmer again went to work for a sawmill, and we found a place to live in nearby Whitefish. By this time another baby was on the way, who turned out to be Dennis. In May of 1966, Elmer went to work for the Great Northern Railroad and finally had a job he liked. He hired out as a fireman and through the years trained as an engineer.
Our lives filled with railroading, cub scouts, baseball, school, and the general business of getting four kids raised. In 1972, we bought our first house. It was located at 538 Spokane Avenue in Whitefish. We paid $14,400 for it and were very proud to have a home of our own. We had really worked at saving for the down payment, and finally managed to buy a home.
Through the next eight years, we did a lot of remodeling. Elmer and I found we had something new to argue about. I never dreamed remodeling involved making so many decisions, or how so many of them were seen differently by the two of us. I still maintain Elmer and I had our best fights over remodeling and kids. Now I think I should introduce you to my children as I knew them.
Danny, Sis, Baby Dave, Dennis. Aren't they cute?
Dad sold the acre of land between us and McFadden's to the Wilsons. Pearl and her husband built a garage and lived in it while they built a house. Their two girls were the same age as my little sister, Doris, and my littlest brother, David. The four of them became instant buddies.
Pearl, a tall rawboned woman, became my mother's great coffee friend. As they sat at each other's kitchen tables, they shared not only coffee, but recipes, gossip, small talk and comfort.
Pearl was kind and loving, but very defensive where her girls were concerned. If anyone picked on them, her temper blazed red hot. Us kids called her Spitfire Pearl.
The summer she was pregnant with her third daughter, the temperature soared. Pearl's temper soared right along with it.
One day while Norma ironed and I washed dishes, the front door flew open with a bang. We heard hard-running feet. Doris and Davy flew through the living room, then the dining room, then by Norma at the ironing board, past me at the sink and then with a great slam, out the back door they went!
Hot on their heels was Pearl with a stick!
Norma stared at me with arched eyebrows. "Wonder what sin they committed?"
I shrugged. "Don't know."
"I'm going to find out." Norma headed for the door. I was hot on her heels.
Pearl had Doris and Davy cornered out by a shed. She stood there with her chest heaving and her frumpy house dress pulled tight across her pregnant stomach. Her long knobby-kneed legs were planted wide. She shook the stick at Doris.
"What did they do?" Brave Norma asked.
Pearl turned. "Doris told me I couldn't do anything about her teasing my girls." She turned back to mute, frightened Doris. "You still think I can't do anything?"
Doris shook her head hard enough that her pigtails bounced back and forth slapping her in the face.
"I'll take care of Doris' sassy mouth, Pearl," said Norma.
"You'd better, or next time I'll use this stick."
Norma drew to a bigger height. She pinpointed Pearl's eyes. They stood glaring at each another. Pearl went home. Norma grabbed Doris by the arm and drug her inside.
Later Doris told me she liked the taste of soap.
Story 12 Shorty pajammas
By mid August, the summer between my seventh and eighth grade was hot. Scorching dry, hazy days settled over our northern Montana valley. Lakes warmed to a good swimming temperature and our upstairs bedrooms were hot with a Capitol "H".
Norma came up with an exciting plan. We approached Mom.
"Mom, can we have a pajama party in the clump of trees?" asked Norma.
"Who's we?" asked Mom as she kneaded a large batch of bread on the counter.
"Naomi, Florine, Carol, Rose, Janet, Barbara, Marie and me," answered Norma. Pausing for a breath, she continued, "It would be so much fun. They could all bring their sleeping bags, and we could have a picnic supper out there, and we wouldn't be any trouble at all. Can we, Mom, can we? It's so hot upstairs."
Mom poked her fingers deep into the dough and pushed forward. A stray lock of premature gray hair slipped across her eye glasses. She pushed it back avoiding the flour on her hand and turned to us with a weary sigh.
"It is too hot to be baking bread let alone have a house full of your friends,"
"But, Mom," pleaded Norma, "I said we'd stay out in the clump of trees. We wouldn't bother you. Marie and I will cook supper and everything."
I nodded in agreement.
Always the patsie, Mom smiled. "Oh, all right. I guess it won't hurt anything."
Our clump of trees was a small stand of Bull Pine and Spruce located almost at the rear of our ten acres. Norma and I spent the afternoon raking long dry needles into eight mattresses for our sleeping bags. Then we fixed sandwiches and pork and beans and potato chips and some of Mom's fresh cinnamon rolls for supper. We carted the food and sleeping bags out to the trees. Finally we were ready.
"Man, this has been a lot of work," I said as I wiped perspiration from my forehead.
"Yeah," Norma agreed, "but it's worth it. We'll have a blast. I can hardly wait for everyone to get here."
"Me, too."
Norma glanced at the sun in the western part of the sky. "They'll start showing up pretty soon. You know, we ought to plan some games for tonight."
"Okay, what games?"
"I was thinking of a snipe hunt at the cemetery. Come on let's go plan our route." We scooted under the barbed-wire fence that separated our land from the Saddle Club, skirted around the grandstand, then entered the cemetery at the back. While Norma plotted where we'd lead our friends, I walked farther in toward Grandpa's grave.
"Hey, look here," I called when I saw a big pile of dirt. "They must have dug a grave."
Norma wandered over.
We stared down into the empty grave.
"Looks deep," she said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "It gives me the creeps."
Norma walked around the grave. Her dark hair glistened in the sun. Her dark brown eyes gleamed with excitement. "You know what?" she asked.
"What?"
"I could get an old sheet and hide in here tonight." She kicked a clod of dirt with her toe and it fell into the hole. "You could bring the girls for the snipe hunt, and I could rise up like a ghost and scare'em." Norma laughed gleefully. "That would be fun, huh?"
"Are you sure you could do it?" My mind saw possibilities.
"Why not? It's just a dumb hole in the ground." She kicked another clod down into the gaping space.
I watched it gather a few more clods as it rolled down the side. Goose bumps made the hair on my arms rise. "How will you get over here without them knowing?"
Norma scratched behind her ear. "I know, I'll say I have to go to the house for something, then I'll slip around and come in by the highway."
"Okay," I agreed with a smile teasing my lips. The picture of Norma coming up out of that hole brought silent laughter to my mind. I figured that maybe there could be some way to turn this into a good joke on Norma, if I could pull it off.
We went home, got an old sheet and hid it in the shed for a quick pick up by Norma. Then we gathered brown paper bags for the snipes. I slipped a phone call to my bosom buddy, Barbie.
Our friends arrived on their bikes, each carried a sleeping bag in their baskets. Our party began. At the point of almost total darkness, Norma headed to the house with the excuse that Mom needed her for a bit.
"Over on the other side of the Saddle Club grounds are snipes," I explained to Rose, Janet, Naomi, Florine, Carol and Barbie who were sitting on their sleeping bags in their shortie pajamas.
"What's a snipe?" asked Rose.
"They're these little things that only come out at night. They're lots of fun to catch. Do you guys want to try to catch some?"
"It sounds like a blast," said Barbie with a giggle. I looked at her and gave a slight wink.
"Well," said Rose, "I don't want to catch something that I don't know what it is I'm catching."
"I can't describe one," I said. "You'll have to catch one and look inside to see what it is. They are real neat. I just love them."
"I do, too." Barbie's giggle was getting worse. I gave her a shutup look.
"I don't believe there is such a thing," said Naomi.
"Well, seeing is believing and you can't see one unless you catch it first." I can be a convincing innocent person when I want to. They all agreed we should go.
The clear black sky filled with starlight, just enough for us to see each other and where we were going. I herded them under our fence, around the grandstand, across a narrow pasture and to the cemetery fence.
"Come on," I said, "we'll cross under down there by the wild rosebushes."
"Why down there?" asked Rose.
"Because there is a little dip in the ground. It'll be easier to crawl under the barbed wire." And Barbie could slip around to the back without Norma seeing her, I thought, chuckling. I reached down and pulled on the wire as Naomi, Florine, Carol and Barbie crawled under, but this is where Rose drew the line.
"Marie, there ain't no way I'm going into that cemetery," she said.
In the starlight I saw her ruffled shortie pajamas bounce as she shook her finger.
"But you gotta," I said. "That's where the snipes are at."
"For cripes sake, Rose," said Barbie, my ally, "you're such a chicken."
"I am not and I'm not dumb either and this is dumb. It's just plain stupid to go into that cemetery at this time of night."
"Okay," I said, "if you want to stay here by yourself that's all right with me." I scooted under the fence scratching my knees on the dry alfalfa.
"Wait a minute," cried Rose, "I'm coming." I could hear her grunt with the effort of crawling under the fence.
"Shh," I said, "we all have to be quiet or we'll never catch any snipes. Has everybody still got their bags?"
"Yes," said Rose, "where do you think they'd be?"
My fingers itched with a need to choke her, but instead I whispered, "Hold your bags open and close to the ground. Be deathly quiet." I led the way. We slipped past the big Talbott tombstone and on across the cemetery. At my discreet signal, Barbie separated from us and stole behind where Norma waited in the hole.
"What's that," whispered Rose?
"What?" asked Naomi.
"Over there." Rose grabbed her by the arm, pointing.
We stared in the direction she indicated. A light shadow rose slowly from the ground. It stood swaying by a black hump. A low eerie wail emitted from it. I knew it was Norma, but hackles rose on my neck anyway. Suddenly a black form flung itself at the light shadow. I heard a thump and a cry and a grunt and a scream. Six girls screamed in bloodcurdling unison. The screech deafened.
We sprinted pel-mel through the cemetery, past the dark shape of the grandstand, by the clump of trees and toward my house. Rose's scream never quit. It was a mournful wail at a high soprano pitch that joggled as she ran hell bent for the beacon of light coming through the living room window.
Mom and Dad came running out of the house. Mom grabbed Rose as she flew past and held her by the shoulders.
"Stop it, Rose," she ordered.
Rose's scream reduced to crying and sobbing.
Mom's glare found me in the window light.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"There's a ghost in the cemetery," gasped Naomi.
"Mom, there really is," said Norma as she entered the dim light beam. "But it's okay now. It tried to knock me into the grave hole, but I knocked it in instead. It put up quite a struggle, but I finally managed to push it in."
"That was Barbie, you idiot," I whispered. "Where is she now?"
Norma shrugged. "What's the matter with everybody?" she asked. "It was just me and Barbie for crying out loud."
"Everyone into the house," ordered Dad.
Mom called Rose's mother to come get her hysterical daughter.
I went to find Barbie who refused to speak to me and followed mutely back to the house.
Rose's folks came. As they led Rose out the door, she turned to us. "I'll never stay at your house again," she announced, then as she climbed into their car her bottom lip spat out, "EVER!"
The next morning after a night spent on the living room floor, our friends rolled up their sleeping bags and threw them into their bike baskets and pedaled for home.
"Thou shalt be grounded even after death," Mother said to Norma and me.
Story 13 I Got Married
The summer of my sixteenth year was a major turning point. Norma left, and I met Elmer.
Norma graduated from high school and moved to Alaska with Naomi's family to seek her fortune. Her leaving left a considerable hole in our family. I couldn't believe I missed her. I had waited all my life for the day Norma left. Now with her gone the house seemed empty. I had no one to share the household chores or to fight with. Doris was old enough to help, but she was a sly little thing and managed to worm her way out of dishes and ironing.
My two best friends were Barbie and Rose. Both had forgiven me for the snipe hunt after I explained it was all Norma's fault. We spent every hour we could together.
Barbie's father allowed her to use his old 1948 drab olive-green Nash. It was a big clumsy car with a sloping back and lots of chrome. Where ever we went it always brought admiring comments from guys. Their interest provided us with a continuing supply of possible boyfriends.
Early one summer night, Barbie telephoned. "I just talked to Rose and she thinks we ought to go to the drive-in."
"What's playing?"
"Who cares? It's a nice night and my father said we could use the Nash. Want to go?"
"Sure," I answered. "What are you wearing?"
"My white pedal pushers. What else?"
On her way to my house, Barb picked up Rose. By the time they came for me the sun had disappeared behind Dollar Hill. The evening star was visible in the last sun rays as we drove west on Highway 40.
The drive-in theater sat on the north side of a four-corner intersection behind a tall woven-board fence of a drabber green than the Nash.
It took Barbie several tries before she parked the Nash perfectly on the mound by a metal speaker post. The night became blacker as we ate homemade popcorn while waiting for the show to start. The floodlights turned off. The screen filled with previews of coming attractions.
At intermission, the real show for us girls began. Different sets of guys began making their way to the snack bar. Some paused and waved as they passed by, others stopped for a good look at the faithful old Nash.
A threesome of guys wandered by. They paused to gaze in the floodlights at the gleaming chrome. I recognized two of them as classmates. We asked them if they wanted to sit in the back and talk for a while.
They introduced Elmer to us and that was it. I was a goner. I kept stealing quick peeks at him in the muted light from the large screen. Every time our eyes connected and he smiled I melted more. He was blonde and blue-eyed with bulging healthy nineteen-year-old muscles. His rough and tumble attitude seemed very mature.
The next day he called and my life began. Everything before Elmer ceased to be. He took over my every thought and feeling. Nothing mattered but to be with him and I was lost to a world of passion.
"You are entirely too young," said Mom when I explained we wanted to get married, she snuffed in her breath. Dad wouldn't even speak to me. Finally by January they agreed to a wedding.
We were married in the middle of winter. I was sixteen and Elmer was nineteen--so young, but we didn't think so. We rented a tiny two-room apartment in Columbia Falls and moved in after the small wedding.
Pastor Warner married us in my parents living room with family and a few friends. Some of Elmer's relatives were still in Montana and they came, Pearl from next door and of course Barbie and Rose.
The ceremony was nice, anyway I guess it was. I can't remember. I think I was too scared to remember. The wedding scared Elmer, too. In our snapshot-wedding photo he looks dead drunk, but he wasn't, just petrified out of his wits.
Story 14 Grown-up
After setting up house, the first thing I learned was how to make a good cup of coffee and how to inhale cigarettes. These two became constant companions and pulled me through times I needed solace. My choice of drugs.
We had absolutely no idea how to make a marriage work, only finding out after years spent together and many battles. Battles of the immature are terrible. Each thinks they are all grown up and have all the answers like the time Elmer insisted, "I can beat you at Aggravation anytime I want to."
"I don't think so," I answered with an amused chuckle.
"You think you're so smart. Get out the board."
I brought out the homemade board. Elmer had carefully drilled holes for the marbles to sit in and sanded the plywood smooth. We played every evening after his smart-aleck challenge with me consistently winning and laughing.
The more I won the more aggravated Elmer became until past the point of control he tossed the board, marbles and almost me out the door. His fury frightened me. I had never seen anyone that angry over nothing or for that matter something. Our marriage survived the Aggravation game with me learning to keep my mouth shut. We were definitely all grown up and ready for marriage and a baby.
My baby conceived in my passion, born of my blood, died. It is still surreal to me. He was born premature after months spent in bed trying to protect him. I never saw my baby, only a glimpse when a nurse rushed by the delivery table carrying him somewhere. Then they gave me ether.
Later the doctor came. "Your baby died," he whispered in my ear. "I hand pumped air for over an hour, but his lungs were unable to breathe on their own." I could tell he was crying and all I could do was nod.
Elmer came in. We cried together. They had the funeral while I was in the hospital. I stood under Grandpa's bull pine tree and stared my baby's grave on the opposite side of the tree trunk from Grandpa.
"Goodby," I whispered, "Grandpa will take care of you." I knelt down, patted some of the sandy soil into a small mound and built a little dry pine needle house, then left the cemetery arm in arm with Elmer.
Eighteen months later I held my brand new baby Danny in my arms. I tried to nurse him and it hurt.
"This really hurts," I said, glancing at the nurse.
"I know, but your nipples will toughen in a few weeks. In fact your whole skin better toughen because this ain't the only time he'll hurt you." She walked from the room with her white-uniformed butt swishing. I would have liked to kick it. How could anyone think my wonderful, sweet, prefect baby would ever cause me hurt. My life was complete and happy. Almost. Elmer liked his beer and was a little temperamental, but that was all right. He was young and wild.
Story 15 Diapers
The day Elmer and I brought Danny home we found out we didn't know how to raise kids either.
I lay Danny in the middle of my bed, unwrapped the blue receiving blanket and checked for a wet diaper. It was. I opened the package of Penny's bird's-eye diapers and shook one out. It was huge. I looked at Danny's tiny red butt, then back at the diaper and started to cry.
Elmer walked in from the kitchen to check on us and took one look at my wet face and turned white.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I can't fold this small enough," I blubbered.
He blinked. "Well I can." He took the cloth from me, laid it on the bed and whipped up the prefect size. He tucked it under the tiny bottom, pinned it. "You better lay down for a while," he added.
I curled up beside my dry baby and fell sound asleep.
Another eighteen months passed and a daughter was added to our family. We had quite a time agreeing on a name for our tiny daughter. I always wanted to name a baby girl Theresa, but grew tired of it by the time I had a little girl to name. We stared at our daughter trying out different names from a baby book. None of them fit until we came to Deanna.
"I like it," I said. I repeated it several times letting it roll off my tongue. "Yes, I think we found her name."
"Okay," said Elmer, "I'm not particularly thrilled with it, but I can live with it if I can pick out her middle name." He chose Lynn.
"Not bad," I agreed. Our baby girl became Deanna Lynn, known as Sis. Sis never liked her name.
During this time period Elmer worked at different jobs trying to find some way to earn a living without losing his mind while doing it. Sawmills drove him absolute nuts. Pulling lumber from a chain was not what he wanted to do the rest of his life. He worked at every sawmill in the area, but never found one he could stand.
He went to work for a Safeway grocery store just before Danny was born. He learned how to cut meat, but cutting the never-ending slabs of beef was not the job for him either. Elmer decided to move our family to Chanute, Kansas where he was raised. We packed our belongings in huge cardboard boxes and bought one-way train tickets. The day my parents took us to the depot was an unhappy one for them and me. They watched their two small excited grandchildren climb on board the Empire Builder. I knew how they felt as I turned and waved at their two dear sad faces.
"I'll write once a week," I called.
This was my first time to leave the valley. Who knew when we would be back? I said goodbye with my heart as the train carried us through Bad Rock Canyon and entered the Rocky Mountains for the long trip up and over the Continental Divide. Great-grandmother Elsie and Grandma Lizzy may have traveled farther when they followed their husbands to find their home, but my journey was long, too.
We traveled through the rest of Montana in dry flat prairies passing many small grain-elevator towns. The train clicked off Galata, Lothair, Chester, Joplin and at Rudyard I stared at the cemetery as we sped by. Grandma Lizzy was buried there. North Dakota's flatland disappeared as we rode the rails into Minnesota. In amazement at the size of St. Paul where we changed trains, I rode my first escalator. It was not at all fun. We continued south through Iowa and down into Missouri. The countryside splendid with rolling hills and picture-perfect farms. We finally arrived at the Kansas City depot.
"It's so big," I whispered to Elmer clutching Danny and Sis close to my side. He found us a bench to sit on for the three-hour wait. I could only stare. There were dark-skinned people everywhere. In all my life I had seen maybe two or three. I kept my children tucked safely beside me on the bench and didn't move.
"Don't be afraid," said Elmer.
I just gaped at him trying to decide if I would ever forgive him for taking me so far away from home.
We boarded yet another train and arrived in Chanute, Kansas after four days and nights on the different trains. When I stepped down from the train, the ground felt like it moved. I realized this must be how it feels for sailors. While I walked toward Elmer's tall white-haired mother, my sea-legs righted themselves.
I was heartened by her warm and friendly smile.
Story 16 Martin Fit
We came home from Kansas in a 1954 Kelly green Pontiac loaded down with all our worldly possessions, two kids and a two-month-old baby, our David Alan.
About one day out of Chanute my body decided to get sick. A kidney infection set in with a raging fever. Elmer had a sick wife, three small kids, 1500 miles to cover and very little money.
Somehow he got us home to my folks. Mom put me right to bed. She managed to keep a still tongue, but Elmer got the evil eye while she called the doctor. After rest and medicine I was just fine.
Elmer again went to work for a sawmill, and we found a place to live in nearby Whitefish. By this time another baby was on the way, who turned out to be Dennis. In May of 1966, Elmer went to work for the Great Northern Railroad and finally had a job he liked. He hired out as a fireman and through the years trained as an engineer.
Our lives filled with railroading, cub scouts, baseball, school, and the general business of getting four kids raised. In 1972, we bought our first house. It was located at 538 Spokane Avenue in Whitefish. We paid $14,400 for it and were very proud to have a home of our own. We had really worked at saving for the down payment, and finally managed to buy a home.
Through the next eight years, we did a lot of remodeling. Elmer and I found we had something new to argue about. I never dreamed remodeling involved making so many decisions, or how so many of them were seen differently by the two of us. I still maintain Elmer and I had our best fights over remodeling and kids. Now I think I should introduce you to my children as I knew them.
Danny, Sis, Baby Dave, Dennis. Aren't they cute?
Danny
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Sis
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Davy
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Dennis
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The picture above is what I call "Our Family." We were busy
Daniel Dwayne was
the first and a bright-eyed lively baby who smiled all the time. I am sure this
is just what he wants to read about himself but that's the way it was. As Danny
grew and other children entered the family, he became (by right of birth) my number-one
helper. He watched over the younger kids and took quite good care of them.
School was fun for Danny and he had a memory like an elephant. I don't know where he got it from because neither Elmer nor I can remember anything. Danny also had a stubborn streak a mile wide.
"Where's Dad?" he asked one day when he walked inside from school.
"He caught a run-through to Havre," I answered. Elmer worked the extra board at the time. We never knew where he'd be.
"I wanted him to help me draw a moose's antlers." Elmer drew a lot for the kids on a small black board.
"Get me the board. I'll try to help." I drew and drew with each picture not good enough for Danny.
"No, Mom, they're not like that. I want them prefect." I finally gave up, but my first-grade child did not. He drew and redrew the antlers. He couldn't get them the way he wanted, so he threw what I called a "Martin Fit", which is accomplished by throwing oneself on the floor and kicking and screaming at the top of your lungs. This happened seldom because punishment always followed.
Elmer got home the next day, drew the damn antlers for Daniel Duane and all was well at our house again.
Danny grew into a tall, wiry kid who loved basketball. From the fifth grade on, all I heard outside the house was a thump-thump-whap as he bounced and shot his basketball.
His life was complete when he made the school team.
School was fun for Danny and he had a memory like an elephant. I don't know where he got it from because neither Elmer nor I can remember anything. Danny also had a stubborn streak a mile wide.
"Where's Dad?" he asked one day when he walked inside from school.
"He caught a run-through to Havre," I answered. Elmer worked the extra board at the time. We never knew where he'd be.
"I wanted him to help me draw a moose's antlers." Elmer drew a lot for the kids on a small black board.
"Get me the board. I'll try to help." I drew and drew with each picture not good enough for Danny.
"No, Mom, they're not like that. I want them prefect." I finally gave up, but my first-grade child did not. He drew and redrew the antlers. He couldn't get them the way he wanted, so he threw what I called a "Martin Fit", which is accomplished by throwing oneself on the floor and kicking and screaming at the top of your lungs. This happened seldom because punishment always followed.
Elmer got home the next day, drew the damn antlers for Daniel Duane and all was well at our house again.
Danny grew into a tall, wiry kid who loved basketball. From the fifth grade on, all I heard outside the house was a thump-thump-whap as he bounced and shot his basketball.
His life was complete when he made the school team.
Sis (Deanna Lynn)
gave the best hugs--all soft and squishy. She favored her
dad and was a daddy's girl. She toddled after him all the time.
When she entered her terrible twos, she put a new meaning to "Martin Fit". It became a "Martin Hissy Fit". This was accomplished by opening the mouth real wide to let out a scream of anger, but instead of hollering at the top of her lungs, she just held her breath until she passed out!
Now that got your attention in a quick hurry. The first time she pulled this on me I grabbed her up, ran to the sink and splashed water on her face. She came to right away. I was really upset!
The next time, Elmer witnessed this spectacular display. He grabbed her up. "Get out of the way," he yelled as he rushed by me and into the kitchen. I heard the faucet running, splashing water and the words, "Is Daddy's girl okay?" Relief flooded his face, when they reentered the living room.
A few more times of this behavior brought the same results. Great commotion and deep concern until we discovered as soon as Sis passed out her breathing automatically started again. If left alone she would wake right up. From then on we just totally ignored her when she displayed this kind of temper. In no time, Sis' version of the fit became a thing of the past.
Sis loved to swim. I spent hours with her and her brothers at the city beach. I would sit in my lawn chair and watch to make sure no one drown. Dennis almost did! I learned not to take your eyes away even for a minute, until I bought him the best invention ever made, a bright orange life jacket. Little size.
After that, when he went out too far and tipped over, the life jacket flipped him over. His face came right out of the water and the waves floated him back to shore. Perfect. I didn't have to get my feet in the cold water to pull him out.
Sometimes it made Dennis very angry when he tipped over, and he screamed at the top of his lungs (Martin Fit) as he floated back to shore. Other beach mothers gave me some awful glares, but little did they know I believe in mothers' revenge, and besides I don't like cold feet.
Once Sis got used to the water's temperature, she did not want to get out. She swam and splashed around for hours on end until I announced, "It's time to go."
"Mom, can't we stay longer?"
"I have to start dinner."
"Pleeeseee," she begged. Her face the epitome of pleading.
"Oh all right," and I sat comfortably back into my fold-up lawn chair. I knew I was a sucker, but who wanted to go home and cook supper? When her lips were purple, almost to the point of black, I would make her get out. Home we went to fast-cooked hotdogs and pork and beans. They loved them and so did I.
The television caused a great commotion. I had a new cable channel hooked up, not realizing what some of the movies had in them. I was in the sewing room one evening when I heard.
"MOM! MOM! COME QUICK! MOMMMM!"
I tore into the living room.
Sis, bent over, held a pillow over the front of the television screen.
I took one look at the screen and saw what the screeching and bellowing was about -- a naked lady!
"It's passed your bedtime boys," I calmly said. "Off you go."
They moaned and groaned, but up the stairs they went. Sis and I sat down and watched the rest of the movie. The next day I had my new cable channel disconnected.
Sis and I had some of our best laughs together while watching old movies on television. She would get to giggling, and then I would, and pretty soon we would both be crying because we were laughing so hard. The boys never understood what was so funny. Sis and I couldn't figure it out either.
We just made each other laugh.
When she entered her terrible twos, she put a new meaning to "Martin Fit". It became a "Martin Hissy Fit". This was accomplished by opening the mouth real wide to let out a scream of anger, but instead of hollering at the top of her lungs, she just held her breath until she passed out!
Now that got your attention in a quick hurry. The first time she pulled this on me I grabbed her up, ran to the sink and splashed water on her face. She came to right away. I was really upset!
The next time, Elmer witnessed this spectacular display. He grabbed her up. "Get out of the way," he yelled as he rushed by me and into the kitchen. I heard the faucet running, splashing water and the words, "Is Daddy's girl okay?" Relief flooded his face, when they reentered the living room.
A few more times of this behavior brought the same results. Great commotion and deep concern until we discovered as soon as Sis passed out her breathing automatically started again. If left alone she would wake right up. From then on we just totally ignored her when she displayed this kind of temper. In no time, Sis' version of the fit became a thing of the past.
Sis loved to swim. I spent hours with her and her brothers at the city beach. I would sit in my lawn chair and watch to make sure no one drown. Dennis almost did! I learned not to take your eyes away even for a minute, until I bought him the best invention ever made, a bright orange life jacket. Little size.
After that, when he went out too far and tipped over, the life jacket flipped him over. His face came right out of the water and the waves floated him back to shore. Perfect. I didn't have to get my feet in the cold water to pull him out.
Sometimes it made Dennis very angry when he tipped over, and he screamed at the top of his lungs (Martin Fit) as he floated back to shore. Other beach mothers gave me some awful glares, but little did they know I believe in mothers' revenge, and besides I don't like cold feet.
Once Sis got used to the water's temperature, she did not want to get out. She swam and splashed around for hours on end until I announced, "It's time to go."
"Mom, can't we stay longer?"
"I have to start dinner."
"Pleeeseee," she begged. Her face the epitome of pleading.
"Oh all right," and I sat comfortably back into my fold-up lawn chair. I knew I was a sucker, but who wanted to go home and cook supper? When her lips were purple, almost to the point of black, I would make her get out. Home we went to fast-cooked hotdogs and pork and beans. They loved them and so did I.
The television caused a great commotion. I had a new cable channel hooked up, not realizing what some of the movies had in them. I was in the sewing room one evening when I heard.
"MOM! MOM! COME QUICK! MOMMMM!"
I tore into the living room.
Sis, bent over, held a pillow over the front of the television screen.
I took one look at the screen and saw what the screeching and bellowing was about -- a naked lady!
"It's passed your bedtime boys," I calmly said. "Off you go."
They moaned and groaned, but up the stairs they went. Sis and I sat down and watched the rest of the movie. The next day I had my new cable channel disconnected.
Sis and I had some of our best laughs together while watching old movies on television. She would get to giggling, and then I would, and pretty soon we would both be crying because we were laughing so hard. The boys never understood what was so funny. Sis and I couldn't figure it out either.
We just made each other laugh.
David Alan
woke me about one o'clock in the middle of the night. He needed to be born.
"You pick OUT the DAMNEST TIMES to go into labor!" Elmer informed me.
"I promise you won't have to deliver this baby," I replied, maybe a little sharp. "There's plenty of time for you to go get your sister and come back for me. We'll get to the hospital with time to spare."
He left on a dead gallop.
When he returned with his sister, I had calmly put coffee on for her, packed my things and patiently waited for them. Elmer rushed me out to the car and TOOK OFF! The streets in Chanute have storm dips. Every time Elmer hit a dip it felt like the seat came from under me and the baby was in my chest instead of my belly.
"For God's sake, Elmer, there's plenty of time."
"I don't want to deliver that baby in the car," he replied as he stared straight ahead with his foot tight against the foot feed. The nurses tucked me safely into the hospital bed, and Davey didn’t make his entrance until five hours later.
Davey, a blonde, blue-eyed little fella, had a natural curiosity that caused him lots of grief. In one week during his terrible twos, he managed to get his head stuck between the house and the boards of the oil barrel rack (when I extracted him, he lost lots of skin on the side of his head), slammed the washing machine lid on his thumb, burned his wrist on the iron, and fell down a big hole at the end of our block.
The city crews had dug the hole looking for a water break. Davey, real curious to see how deep it was, wandered down the sidewalk with Sis to have a look-see. The first I knew of impending disaster was when Sis hit the back door. It opened with a bang.
"DAVEY'S IN THE HOLE!!!" she screamed.
I looked at her. I blinked. "WHAT?" I asked.
She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me outside and down the block. As I got closer to the hole, I could hear a "MARTIN FIT" emitting from the hole. Davey had taken it to new heights. His bellow deep and hoarse. If someone had been walking by, I'm sure they would have thought the kid was being murdered.
Not concerned, his "fits" just sounded like that, I lay on my tummy, reached way down and grabbed a handful of shirt at the nap of his neck. Up he came. I dusted him off, gave him a hug and off he went to find more mischief. I sighed, what a week it had been for that little boy.
Dave is the name the kids in school settled on. He informed me that I was no longer to call him Davey.
After all no golfer is called Davey.
"You pick OUT the DAMNEST TIMES to go into labor!" Elmer informed me.
"I promise you won't have to deliver this baby," I replied, maybe a little sharp. "There's plenty of time for you to go get your sister and come back for me. We'll get to the hospital with time to spare."
He left on a dead gallop.
When he returned with his sister, I had calmly put coffee on for her, packed my things and patiently waited for them. Elmer rushed me out to the car and TOOK OFF! The streets in Chanute have storm dips. Every time Elmer hit a dip it felt like the seat came from under me and the baby was in my chest instead of my belly.
"For God's sake, Elmer, there's plenty of time."
"I don't want to deliver that baby in the car," he replied as he stared straight ahead with his foot tight against the foot feed. The nurses tucked me safely into the hospital bed, and Davey didn’t make his entrance until five hours later.
Davey, a blonde, blue-eyed little fella, had a natural curiosity that caused him lots of grief. In one week during his terrible twos, he managed to get his head stuck between the house and the boards of the oil barrel rack (when I extracted him, he lost lots of skin on the side of his head), slammed the washing machine lid on his thumb, burned his wrist on the iron, and fell down a big hole at the end of our block.
The city crews had dug the hole looking for a water break. Davey, real curious to see how deep it was, wandered down the sidewalk with Sis to have a look-see. The first I knew of impending disaster was when Sis hit the back door. It opened with a bang.
"DAVEY'S IN THE HOLE!!!" she screamed.
I looked at her. I blinked. "WHAT?" I asked.
She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me outside and down the block. As I got closer to the hole, I could hear a "MARTIN FIT" emitting from the hole. Davey had taken it to new heights. His bellow deep and hoarse. If someone had been walking by, I'm sure they would have thought the kid was being murdered.
Not concerned, his "fits" just sounded like that, I lay on my tummy, reached way down and grabbed a handful of shirt at the nap of his neck. Up he came. I dusted him off, gave him a hug and off he went to find more mischief. I sighed, what a week it had been for that little boy.
Dave is the name the kids in school settled on. He informed me that I was no longer to call him Davey.
After all no golfer is called Davey.
Dennis Leon
was the last of my babies. When I found out, another baby was to join the
family, I just couldn't believe I would once again have a big belly and go
through another labor.
I couldn't even think about caring for one more little being and became more and more tired as the pregnancy drew to an end. Danny was four, Sis was three and Davey was only seventeen months when Dennis arrived.
The doctor realized I was worn out and prescribed some medicine to make me sleep. It knocked me out. I awoke only to feed the baby or myself. The end result of three days of complete rest was that I was glad to have my baby Dennis, so tiny and good.
White corn silk hair with wrinkles in his forehead and around his eyes just like his Dad's. A rested and proud mom went home to her other kids.
Having a new baby come home always upsets the child just older. When Davey and I came home from the hospital, Sis glared in anger at me for a whole day. Danny pitched a "Martin Fit" the first time he saw me nurse Sis. Elmer had to take him for a walk so I could feed the little one.
It devastated Davey when his world was invaded by a baby brother. The first day home I made sure all three kids got to hold the new baby. I explained how he was brand new, and we all had to be very careful and not hurt him. I had the bassinet in my room because I had to have a newborn right next to my bed so I could hear. I slept like the dead and feared I wouldn't hear a baby's cry.
I put Dennis to sleep and safely tucked him away in his bassinet. Into the kitchen I went to make lunch for my kiddies. I figured some of Mom's cooking would taste good to them after three days of being gone. I heard a crash! Now what? I flew to the bedroom, and there sat Davey with the bassinet turned over by his legs. He bent forward, looking under the bed. "Did you climb up the side of the bassinet?" I asked calmly. Davey's eyes were wet as he nodded.
"Where is the baby?" I asked not so calmly.
Davey pointed under the bed.
Dennis had rolled under the bed! I knelt down and pulled the brand new baby out. Davey sat there with his big blue eyes watching me check the baby over for major damage. I found none. With Davey by the hand and the three of us went into the living-room. I placed Davey on the couch and put Dennis in his arms. There they sat. Davey's pudgy little arms carefully encircling Dennis. He learned to love his little brother.
Dennis, a good little guy, never threw a "Martin Fit" or fussed as a baby. He didn't dare. I just did not have enough time for a fussy baby.
Dennis loved baseball. He finally got to start C League the summer he was five, turning six in August. He had waited and watched his older brothers play and could hardly wait to get in on the action.
"Well, did you like it?" I asked after his first game.
"Ya know Mom," he answered very seriously, "when the ball was hit to me it felt like a herd of horses running at me."
"But you caught the ball anyway."
"Yeah." His face lit up with an enormous grin under his new green ball cap. He grew so attached to that ball cap, we had to make him remove it for eating, sleeping and taking a bath. He would go into the bathroom, with his hat on, take a bath and then come out in PJ's with the hat on his head. I am sure there were times the hair didn't get washed.
I wished now that I would have kept it, but by the time he was old enough for the next step up in little league and a different colored hat, it was so faded and dirty we pitched it out.
I couldn't even think about caring for one more little being and became more and more tired as the pregnancy drew to an end. Danny was four, Sis was three and Davey was only seventeen months when Dennis arrived.
The doctor realized I was worn out and prescribed some medicine to make me sleep. It knocked me out. I awoke only to feed the baby or myself. The end result of three days of complete rest was that I was glad to have my baby Dennis, so tiny and good.
White corn silk hair with wrinkles in his forehead and around his eyes just like his Dad's. A rested and proud mom went home to her other kids.
Having a new baby come home always upsets the child just older. When Davey and I came home from the hospital, Sis glared in anger at me for a whole day. Danny pitched a "Martin Fit" the first time he saw me nurse Sis. Elmer had to take him for a walk so I could feed the little one.
It devastated Davey when his world was invaded by a baby brother. The first day home I made sure all three kids got to hold the new baby. I explained how he was brand new, and we all had to be very careful and not hurt him. I had the bassinet in my room because I had to have a newborn right next to my bed so I could hear. I slept like the dead and feared I wouldn't hear a baby's cry.
I put Dennis to sleep and safely tucked him away in his bassinet. Into the kitchen I went to make lunch for my kiddies. I figured some of Mom's cooking would taste good to them after three days of being gone. I heard a crash! Now what? I flew to the bedroom, and there sat Davey with the bassinet turned over by his legs. He bent forward, looking under the bed. "Did you climb up the side of the bassinet?" I asked calmly. Davey's eyes were wet as he nodded.
"Where is the baby?" I asked not so calmly.
Davey pointed under the bed.
Dennis had rolled under the bed! I knelt down and pulled the brand new baby out. Davey sat there with his big blue eyes watching me check the baby over for major damage. I found none. With Davey by the hand and the three of us went into the living-room. I placed Davey on the couch and put Dennis in his arms. There they sat. Davey's pudgy little arms carefully encircling Dennis. He learned to love his little brother.
Dennis, a good little guy, never threw a "Martin Fit" or fussed as a baby. He didn't dare. I just did not have enough time for a fussy baby.
Dennis loved baseball. He finally got to start C League the summer he was five, turning six in August. He had waited and watched his older brothers play and could hardly wait to get in on the action.
"Well, did you like it?" I asked after his first game.
"Ya know Mom," he answered very seriously, "when the ball was hit to me it felt like a herd of horses running at me."
"But you caught the ball anyway."
"Yeah." His face lit up with an enormous grin under his new green ball cap. He grew so attached to that ball cap, we had to make him remove it for eating, sleeping and taking a bath. He would go into the bathroom, with his hat on, take a bath and then come out in PJ's with the hat on his head. I am sure there were times the hair didn't get washed.
I wished now that I would have kept it, but by the time he was old enough for the next step up in little league and a different colored hat, it was so faded and dirty we pitched it out.
Nice mess of fish. I think they were caught at Foy's Lake.
Story 20 Fish Stories
Elmer and I used to like taking the family on fish outings. This accomplished two things. It gave us something to do on weekends with the kids. It also wore them out and kept them out of mischief. With four kids all within a year and a few months apart, we had our hands full keeping them occupied and keeping our sanity.
It is amazing how much time is taken up getting ready for a fish outing. I had to pack a lunch, take a change of clothes for all kids, wash rag, towels, toilet paper (some of us were girls), knife, and first aid kit plus aspirin for Elmer's headaches.
Elmer gathered the fish poles, checked their lines, got out the tackle box and made sure enough hooks, lures and torpedoes were inside. He then dug worms and caught grasshoppers. The boys helped him. Sis helped me.
A destination had to be decided on, pickup loaded and then off we went. One of our favorite fishing holes was by the steel bridge on the east side of Columbia Falls where a bend in the river makes for ideal fishing.
I can't tell you how many hooks we baited or how many snarled lines we untangled or how many lures got lost or how many pairs of tennis shoes got soaked or how many times Danny and his father yelled, "Quiet, you'll scare the fish," or "For God's sakes don't throw rocks in the water," but I can tell you the most important thing, many fish were caught there.
Another favorite place was Murray Lake. We had to hike quietly down this steep, steep hill to get to the lake and cast from shore.
One time, the two smaller boys (ages two and three) stood right in front of Elmer and myself, seems like they were always underfoot. Davey reached down, grabbed a good sized rock, and swung his arm up to throw it. It slipped out of his grasp hitting Elmer right in the head!
I looked up to see why the grunt, when all of a sudden I got smacked right in the forehead by a rock! It had slipped from Dennis' hand. Boy, that hurt. We went home early.
Sis' favorite fishing hole was Foy's Lake, because she could swim while the guys fished. I sat on shore watching Elmer and whatever boy was in the fishing boat with him (they had to take turns), and kept an eye on Sis and the other two boys while they swam. The bait used was Velveeta cheese rolled into a small ball and placed on a small triple hook. This produced amazing results.
Danny and Elmer were in the boat, pulling out one after another. Suddenly they both had big ones at the same time! A fellow down the beach watched the action in the boat. He stood with his hands on his hips, breathing heavy, then he threw his hands into the air.
"I CAN'T STAND IT," he yelped and jumped into the water. He swam toward the boat. With water in his mouth, he hollered, "WHAT ARE YOU USING FOR BAIT?"
The calm, quick reply from Elmer could be heard across the water, "Corn."
Elmer and I used to like taking the family on fish outings. This accomplished two things. It gave us something to do on weekends with the kids. It also wore them out and kept them out of mischief. With four kids all within a year and a few months apart, we had our hands full keeping them occupied and keeping our sanity.
It is amazing how much time is taken up getting ready for a fish outing. I had to pack a lunch, take a change of clothes for all kids, wash rag, towels, toilet paper (some of us were girls), knife, and first aid kit plus aspirin for Elmer's headaches.
Elmer gathered the fish poles, checked their lines, got out the tackle box and made sure enough hooks, lures and torpedoes were inside. He then dug worms and caught grasshoppers. The boys helped him. Sis helped me.
A destination had to be decided on, pickup loaded and then off we went. One of our favorite fishing holes was by the steel bridge on the east side of Columbia Falls where a bend in the river makes for ideal fishing.
I can't tell you how many hooks we baited or how many snarled lines we untangled or how many lures got lost or how many pairs of tennis shoes got soaked or how many times Danny and his father yelled, "Quiet, you'll scare the fish," or "For God's sakes don't throw rocks in the water," but I can tell you the most important thing, many fish were caught there.
Another favorite place was Murray Lake. We had to hike quietly down this steep, steep hill to get to the lake and cast from shore.
One time, the two smaller boys (ages two and three) stood right in front of Elmer and myself, seems like they were always underfoot. Davey reached down, grabbed a good sized rock, and swung his arm up to throw it. It slipped out of his grasp hitting Elmer right in the head!
I looked up to see why the grunt, when all of a sudden I got smacked right in the forehead by a rock! It had slipped from Dennis' hand. Boy, that hurt. We went home early.
Sis' favorite fishing hole was Foy's Lake, because she could swim while the guys fished. I sat on shore watching Elmer and whatever boy was in the fishing boat with him (they had to take turns), and kept an eye on Sis and the other two boys while they swam. The bait used was Velveeta cheese rolled into a small ball and placed on a small triple hook. This produced amazing results.
Danny and Elmer were in the boat, pulling out one after another. Suddenly they both had big ones at the same time! A fellow down the beach watched the action in the boat. He stood with his hands on his hips, breathing heavy, then he threw his hands into the air.
"I CAN'T STAND IT," he yelped and jumped into the water. He swam toward the boat. With water in his mouth, he hollered, "WHAT ARE YOU USING FOR BAIT?"
The calm, quick reply from Elmer could be heard across the water, "Corn."
Dan with two of the little neighbor kids.
21 Biggest Fish Stories
Foy's Lake provided one of my favorite fishing memories. I'll never forget the sound of Davey's four-year-old laughter as it crossed the water to the beach where I sat. It was his turn in the boat with Elmer, and he sat very still watching his line in the water.
A big rainbow trout struck his bait with a mighty jerk. Somehow Davey managed to set the hook. The battle was on! Afraid the fish might pull Davey into the water, Elmer grabbed the kid's back belt loop, and let him battle the fish.
And war it was! That big fish did not want to get caught. Elmer reached around and loosened the drag so the line wouldn't break. The fish took off pulling Davey. Elmer's strong arm pulled back on Davey and the fish. This tug-of-war went on for a time, first the fish pulled, then Davey pulled. The pole bent double.
"It's time to start reeling," Elmer whispered in Davey's ear as he reset the drag. Davey hung on tight to the pole with one pudgy strong hand. He reeled in a herky-jerky motion with the other. Slowly he brought the fish toward the boat. The whole time I heard this magical laugh coming from Davey. It was full of music, wonder and enjoyment. He finally got the fish close enough for Elmer to net it into the boat. The fish was five pounds of wonderful pink meat for that little boy to eat and claimed the title of the biggest fish our family caught out of Foy's Lake.
An ugly pike claimed title of the biggest fish caught by one of my kids. It was springtime, and the pike were running in the Whitefish River. Danny spent several days in pursuit of one of these monsters. In my kitchen doing Mom work, I jumped when the back door flew open, and in ran a soaking wet kid! He dripped wet from the armpits down. Excitement sparkled from his eyes.
"Come, see the fish I caught," he announced.
I went out the door, down the steps, around the corner and jumped again, with a yeek! There on the cement lay this ugly monster of a fish.
"What kind of a fish is that, and how did you catch it, AND WHY ARE YOU ALL WET?" Reasonable questions for a mother. Danny told the splendid story in a very excited way.
"Mom, I was down fishing on the foot bridge. I stood really quiet and watched the big fish swimming by my line. Suddenly it bit my hook! It scared me so bad! I jumped and pulled very hard. The hook must have set in really good, because the fish didn't get off when it started to fight and swim away." Danny's voice was full of wonder.
"Continue," I said.
"You know those pilings under the bridge?"
I nodded.
"The fish wrapped itself around one of them. I didn't know what to do. I lowered myself over the side of the bridge with one hand and held on real tight to the pole with the other. I managed to work myself over to the piling where the fish was snagged. I worked the line free. Then I jumped into the river and ran for shore, dragging the fish behind me. I ran until the fish flopped safely on dry ground." Finished with his story, Danny's sigh sounded tired and relieved.
Neither kid nor fish smelled very good.
"Go take a bath, then we'll go to Grandpa's. He'll show us how to clean and flay the fish." Excitement ran through Dad and Mom's neighborhood. Everyone came to see the big ugly fish before any cleaning was done.
Grandpa brought out the scales and weighed the pike. It weighed twenty-two pounds and measured forty-two inches long. He started flaying. We wrapped lots of meat into small white packages for the freezer.
I dreaded the thought of cooking it. I'm not fond of fish, but there was no way I could get out of fixing Danny his monster. I decided the best way to be rid of the fish was to have a fish fry for all the kids who hung around the house. I made a slap-together batter, dipped the fish into it and dropped it into the deep-fat fryer. That bunch of kids just loved it. I could not bring myself to try it.
In 1992, I happened to see one of the kids who was at the fish fry. He asked me if I remembered how I fixed the fish for that big fish fry. I said I didn't remember exactly, just threw together a batter.
"That's too bad," he said, "because that was the best fish I ever ate."
Foy's Lake provided one of my favorite fishing memories. I'll never forget the sound of Davey's four-year-old laughter as it crossed the water to the beach where I sat. It was his turn in the boat with Elmer, and he sat very still watching his line in the water.
A big rainbow trout struck his bait with a mighty jerk. Somehow Davey managed to set the hook. The battle was on! Afraid the fish might pull Davey into the water, Elmer grabbed the kid's back belt loop, and let him battle the fish.
And war it was! That big fish did not want to get caught. Elmer reached around and loosened the drag so the line wouldn't break. The fish took off pulling Davey. Elmer's strong arm pulled back on Davey and the fish. This tug-of-war went on for a time, first the fish pulled, then Davey pulled. The pole bent double.
"It's time to start reeling," Elmer whispered in Davey's ear as he reset the drag. Davey hung on tight to the pole with one pudgy strong hand. He reeled in a herky-jerky motion with the other. Slowly he brought the fish toward the boat. The whole time I heard this magical laugh coming from Davey. It was full of music, wonder and enjoyment. He finally got the fish close enough for Elmer to net it into the boat. The fish was five pounds of wonderful pink meat for that little boy to eat and claimed the title of the biggest fish our family caught out of Foy's Lake.
An ugly pike claimed title of the biggest fish caught by one of my kids. It was springtime, and the pike were running in the Whitefish River. Danny spent several days in pursuit of one of these monsters. In my kitchen doing Mom work, I jumped when the back door flew open, and in ran a soaking wet kid! He dripped wet from the armpits down. Excitement sparkled from his eyes.
"Come, see the fish I caught," he announced.
I went out the door, down the steps, around the corner and jumped again, with a yeek! There on the cement lay this ugly monster of a fish.
"What kind of a fish is that, and how did you catch it, AND WHY ARE YOU ALL WET?" Reasonable questions for a mother. Danny told the splendid story in a very excited way.
"Mom, I was down fishing on the foot bridge. I stood really quiet and watched the big fish swimming by my line. Suddenly it bit my hook! It scared me so bad! I jumped and pulled very hard. The hook must have set in really good, because the fish didn't get off when it started to fight and swim away." Danny's voice was full of wonder.
"Continue," I said.
"You know those pilings under the bridge?"
I nodded.
"The fish wrapped itself around one of them. I didn't know what to do. I lowered myself over the side of the bridge with one hand and held on real tight to the pole with the other. I managed to work myself over to the piling where the fish was snagged. I worked the line free. Then I jumped into the river and ran for shore, dragging the fish behind me. I ran until the fish flopped safely on dry ground." Finished with his story, Danny's sigh sounded tired and relieved.
Neither kid nor fish smelled very good.
"Go take a bath, then we'll go to Grandpa's. He'll show us how to clean and flay the fish." Excitement ran through Dad and Mom's neighborhood. Everyone came to see the big ugly fish before any cleaning was done.
Grandpa brought out the scales and weighed the pike. It weighed twenty-two pounds and measured forty-two inches long. He started flaying. We wrapped lots of meat into small white packages for the freezer.
I dreaded the thought of cooking it. I'm not fond of fish, but there was no way I could get out of fixing Danny his monster. I decided the best way to be rid of the fish was to have a fish fry for all the kids who hung around the house. I made a slap-together batter, dipped the fish into it and dropped it into the deep-fat fryer. That bunch of kids just loved it. I could not bring myself to try it.
In 1992, I happened to see one of the kids who was at the fish fry. He asked me if I remembered how I fixed the fish for that big fish fry. I said I didn't remember exactly, just threw together a batter.
"That's too bad," he said, "because that was the best fish I ever ate."
Story 22 Moose
If you live in Montana near mountains filled with lakes and bogs, it is only natural to have a run in with the spine-chilling moose.
Our moose story involves Elmer and his friend Doug. The two of them went on a fish outing up the North Fork to one of the other small lakes which dot the area. They were busy casting away when they heard the darnest noise from across the lake.
Elmer and Doug continued casting away. At the same time, they kept a close eye on the strange acting animal. Had to be a cow moose they decided as she ran down into the water, shook her head and screamed a terrible noise. She repeated this over and over, then finally left.
The guys continued casting away in the restored quiet. The peaceful forest and plunking of their lures gave them a nice break from their noisy sawmill jobs.
Without warning a crashing and screaming erupted right behind them! Elmer's and Doug's nap hairs stood on end. They pivoted. Out of the woods charged that mad moose! Their poles flew in the air. They barreled out into the cold lake armpit high.
Satisfied, the moose turned. She gathered up her hidden baby. That explained everything. The guys had stood between a mama moose and her baby.
The next person in our family to have that wonderful feeling of shear terror caused by a moose was son fourteen-year-old Danny. He and his sidekick were up riding Honda 90's behind the Olney sawmill. They had found a nice little country lane to speed up and then speed down. It wound up a mountain side, around blind curves and out into a peaceful mountain meadow.
The boys rounded one of these curves. On the other side, a big mother moose and her baby wandered across the road. The boys hit their brakes hard and slid to a stop. Danny's Honda turned over on its side. It slid right under the feet of the startled mama moose! She turned and ran! Danny picked up the Honda and sped away in the opposite direction. When he got home and told me what happened, I immediately decided Honda riding behind Olney sawmill was off limits.
After all I'm a protective mama, too.
Story 23 Mouse
My favorite wild-creature story involves a much smaller species than a moose. Mine is of a mouse I discovered in our cute little remodeled home. It was sometime in the middle of the night. I got out of bed to use the bathroom and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water.
A furry flash ran across the floor when I turned on the light. Without thinking I grabbed an empty margarine tub from the counter top. With a flash move, I slapped it down on the top of the mouse as he ran by my feet. I thought smugly to myself, Boy AM I QUICK.
I stood there bending over in my shortie nightgown, holding the tub in place so the mouse could not escape, when it dawned on me that I could not raise my hand without the mouse getting loose! Naturally not knowing what else to do I yelled for Elmer.
No answer.
"Elmer," I called again.
Still, no answer. Elmer is a sound sleeper.
I called and called with each yell a little louder until he finally heard me at a pitch that should have woke the neighbors. He staggered out of the bedroom with a puzzled look. "What?" he asked.
"I have a mouse trapped in this damn butter tub. Do something."
Rather stunned, Elmer stood there. Then he calmly went over to the broom closet, got out the dust pan and came back. He put the dust pan on the floor by the margarine tub and took hold of the tub. He slid it and the mouse onto the dust pan. He calmly walked to the back door, opened it and threw dust pan, margarine tub and mouse out in the back yard and calmly shut the door.
"Don't catch any more mice," he muttered as he walked passed me going back to bed.
I tried very hard not to laugh. It was very hard not to. The next morning I went out and gathered up the tub and dust pan wondering if any of the neighbors had seen the strange sight of a man in his undershorts, in the middle of the night open up the back door and toss a dust pan and margarine tub out into the middle of the back yard. Nobody ever said anything, so they evidently did not see or were not sure if what they thought they saw was true.
A slimy six-inch salamander was another wild creature that entered my life. One of the boys caught it and wanted to keep it for a pet. I gave the boy a gold fish bowl with steep sides and a narrow opening on the top. The kid delighted in his new pet. He gathered grass and several small rocks, which were placed in the bottom of the bowl. I added a small amount of water. A perfectly nice home for any salamander.
The kid then killed a few flies and dropped them in for the reptile's supper. At bedtime we placed the bowl on top of the refrigerator. The next morning the salamander was gone! For two weeks, every time I picked up clothes from the bedroom floors or got into the bottom cupboard, I just knew that salamander would jump out at me.
I never did see him again, but I sure picked things up with careful inspection first.
Story 24 Bat and Bears
I have one more of the many wild-creature stories which have happened to this family that I just love. My youngest son, Dennis had rented his first place to live on his own. This cabin sat about five miles west on Highway 93 and a mile north on a country road. It huddled back off the road and behind the house of the nice people who owned it.
Dennis worked night shifts at the Olney sawmill. His first night in his own place, he arrived home about three o'clock in the pitch black. There was no outside light turned on. The thought of leaving one on never crossed his mind.
The parking place for his pickup was about two hundred yards from the cabin. A path wound through the trees and up a small incline. Dennis felt his way from the pickup to the cabin, hearing every noise on the way. He searched for the door with the palms of his hands, then fingered around the knob until he managed to get the key into the lock.
With a sigh of relief he finally opened the door. Something swooped down at him! He jumped and screeched and at last found the light switch! The light showed him a small bat flying around his head! He grabbed the broom and chased the bat up the stairs to the loft. Then the bat chased him down the stairs. He eventually managed to chase it out the open door, which he quickly shut and locked. I thought this was a wonderful way for Dennis to start his independence.
I know I said I would only tell one more wild-creature story, but Alan and I were reminiscing. Naturally, our talk turned our older sister, Norma. We got to laughing about the time, as teenagers, we all drove up to Glacier Park.
We hiked two miles up the side of a mountain, arriving at Avalanche Lake. It was always worth the effort, because of the trout in the glacier fed lake, just waiting to be caught. The trail ends near the mouth of Avalanche Creek where a log jam has formed making a deep shady pool. Perfect for fish. Norma cast her line into the shadows and managed to catch three or four nice ones. She pulled some grass and laid the fish in it to help keep them wet. She re-baited and cast line. After a few minutes, she had a mighty strike. She set the hook with a jerk and reeled in the fish. With the fish dangling from the pole, she turned to place it with the others.
Norma froze.
A bear sat eating her fish!
Norma emitted a bloodcurdling screech, threw her pole in the air, sat down, took off her shoes, and with a running jump, into the cold lake she flew.
Scared out of his wits from all the commotion, the poor bear ran off in the other direction. Norma informed us we better quit laughing or we would be very sorry! Alan had the most wonderful laugh. It grew up from deep inside him and came out as a sound of pure fun.
My poor sister had two run-in's with a creature she really loved as a girl -- horses. We spent hours at the neighbors catching the horses they let us ride.
Dusty, a gentle old mare, did not want to haul kids all over the place. She always put up a very good chase, but eventually she gave up and let us catch her.
Norma loved to ride. The faster the better. She constantly urged a faster speed by kicking the horse's sides and flipping the reins on the horses' rump.
One day, Old Dusty answered Norma's kicks and flips by galloping at a fast clip. She raced down the trail to the creek and back at a much faster pace than she liked.
Norma patted Dusty's neck.
"That's a good girl. I knew you could go fast."
They neared the long driveway heading home. Dusty grabbed the bit in her teeth, jerked her head and raced for the barn. They entered the driveway at a dead gallop! Norma hung on for dear life.
Old Dusty flew under one of the big willow trees. A branch caught Norma across the chest knocking her off backward. She landed with a mighty thump. Norma lay dazed. Killed I thought until I heard her moan.
Mom came and took her to the doctor. He taped her cracked wrist and ribs and poured disinfectant over the gravel burn areas. Next time Norma rode, Old Dusty set the pace.
Another horse did Norma in. Dad had brought several range horses over from the ranch after Grandpa died, and they were on the wild side.
One morning, Norma decided a ride would be nice before getting ready for work. She saddled up the skittish horse, climbed aboard and for a starter gave a mighty kick. The nervous horse jumped straight in the air. It came down bucking! Norma flew off with a graceful arc, landing with a grunt. When she stood up, every seam in her jeans had split.
We didn't laugh then, but we do now, and she laughs with us.
Dan and Deanna (Sis)
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Dennis and Davey
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Story 25 Bicycles
Since our earliest ancestors our family has loved bicycles. Elmer's first bike was a shared bike. His older sister bought an old used Hawthorn bike for eight dollars. She gave it to Elmer. The best part was he only had to share it with one brother, John. It served them well, with each getting his turn every other Saturday, but as with all shared things, difficulties arose.
As usual, Elmer pedaled the eleven blocks under the large shady oak trees that lined the streets of Chanute to the Saturday afternoon matinee. He parked the bike in the rusted metal bike rack, paid his dime, bought nickel popcorn and saved his last ten cents for a double dip ice cream cone on the way home.
After watching a Gene Autry double feature with his buddies, he went to get the bike. It wasn't where he carefully left it. Aghast, he and his buddies searched the area, but found nothing.
His heart banged against his chest as he ran all the way home to report the missing bike. He hit the front door. "Someone stole our bike," he announced with a chalky white face.
"It's out back," said John. "I took it."
Elmer blinked a couple of times. "You took the bike! It was my turn!"
"What-cha gonna do about it?"
Elmer simmered all week waiting. The next Saturday afternoon he just happened to walk by the theater. There the bike dared him to take it. He thought it over and decided even though John was bigger he would be on the bike, and there was no way John could catch him.
John caught him and made sure that Elmer didn't take it again when it wasn't his turn.
Their mom made sure John didn't take it when it wasn't his turn.
The bike I remember is the new one my friend Rose got for her birthday the summer before seventh grade. She called me the day of her birthday.
"Hi," she said. "Guess what I got for my birthday?"
"What?" I asked back.
"A new bike."
"Oh." The sin of envy began in my soul.
"I'm going to ride out and show you."
"Okay," I agreed, hanging up. She rode into the yard on a brand new Schwinn, all pink and pretty. My envy grew. My dad kept us supplied with used bikes. They needed tires changed and wheels straightened all the time. They did get us where we wanted to go, but oh how I admired that pink Schwinn.
Danny continued this love for two-wheel transportation.
"I am, too, old enough to have a bike," he had whined over and over.
"No three-year-old is old enough for a bike." I answered. I repeated this every day to Danny until the day Elmer came home with exciting news.
"I found a small red one down at the hardware store with training wheels," said Elmer. "I think he could handle it."
In about two weeks, Elmer removed the training wheels off and away he went.
That bike was used by each of our kids as they learned to ride, with Elmer taking training wheels off and putting them back on. It also served as a learning bike for about ten neighborhood kids. It really looked it.
We lived on West Eighth Street when Davey learned to ride. The sloped front yard had a Mountain Ash tree in its center. After Davey pushed the bike to the end of the gravel driveway, he got onboard and peddled back, carefully guiding it through the open gate.
He gathered speed as down the slope he went. His timing perfect, he reached up and grabbed the lowest branch of the Ash tree. As he hung onto the branch, the little rusty, dented bike continued on down the gentle slope. It was much easier on the tree and the bike when Davey finally learned how to use the brakes.
When we bought Danny a yellow, banana seated bike with winged handlebars, Sis inherited the little red one, and I had an old Schwinn bike I bought from Norma. David used the little red one when Sis wasn't, and Dennis had Davey's tricycle.
One fine summer day, while I put Sis' folded clothes away, I found a twenty-dollar bill in her drawer. I was shocked! When she came in from playing, we had a discussion. I wanted to know where that money came from. Hanging her head, she said, "I sold your bike." I said, "What!" She said, "I sold your bike." I asked, "To who?" She said, "To the little girl down the street." I asked, "Why?" She said, "So we could ride bikes together." Have you ever explained to another child's mother that your bike was not for sale, here's the twenty dollars back and that you want the bike?
Time passed. Sis grew into my old bike, Dan still had the yellow, banana-seated one, and the little rusty red one was completely worn out and needed to be retired.
Besides we had listened to the two little boys whine about needing bikes of their own long enough. Their legitimate arguments that Danny already had two new ones and everyone else in the whole world has new ones got passed our pocket books.
Elmer went to Kalispell and returned home with two Schwinn bicycles. They were 20-inchers; one was blue and one was green. Davey and Dennis were beside themselves with glee. Both hopped on and rode like the wind. Dennis kinda wobbled on his, but before long he could keep right up with the bigger kids. He spent his life trying to keep up with the bigger kids.
A few blocks from where we lived was a neat hill. The kids called it "Slingshot Hill" because it had a big sharp turn in it. At the bottom, a narrow path led to the foot bridge. Beside the path was a large pile of dirt that made a great jump. The boys would ride like the wind down the hill, around the sharp curve, enter the narrow path, fly over the dirt pile and sail out over the river on the bridge. Woe be to anyone walking on the foot bridge. This routine was repeated time and time again, day after day.
Elmer never could figure out why the bikes looked so beat up.
Story 26 Wrecks
Of course with four kids riding hell-bent-for-leather all over town, we had some memorable wrecks. One in particular stands out in my mind. It was summer, and the kids were going to ride over to the city beach for a swim. All the kids had tender skin so being a good mother, I made them wear white tee shirts when they went into the water.
After they left, I peacefully did housework in the quiet kitchen. All of a sudden the back door flew open and Davey hobbled in, emitting an awful sound. It was somewhere between I should be dead, but I'm not.
I rushed over to see if he was half dead. Tire tracks ran across the white tee shirt. I blinked and looked again. Sure enough a perfect set of bike tracks angled across his chest.
"What happened?" I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know.
Davey hiccupped twice, snuffed nose-tears twice. "We were racing," he said in his best almost dead voice, "and I was in the lead," hiccup, snuff. "I was even beating Danny! When I looked back to see how close they were, my front tire slid smack dab down into a crack."
"What crack?"
"You know the weigh scales in front of the cop shop?"
I nodded.
"I did a perfect flip over the handlebars," he continued with even a better dead voice, "landing on my back. Danny ran right over me. See right here." He pointed to his shirt.
I ascertained no bones were broken, that he would live, and gave him a hug. "I'm sure Danny didn't mean to run over you."
Davey nodded against my shoulder. "He tried to stop." He snuffed a couple more times, then off he went to try to get to the lake for that swim.
Another one of the wrecks that half killed one of the kids was caused by not listening to Elmer. If only the kids would have listened to their Dad's warnings, many griefs could have been avoided. One of the strict warnings was: "Don't ride your bike over the viaduct. Always get off and push your bike over." We heard from Elmer's co-workers every now and then, "Saw your boys riding across the viaduct the other day..." Elmer would come home from work and once again tell those kids to push their bikes across the viaduct. All this is leading up to Sis' great wreck.
The viaduct, a narrow bridge that went over the railroad tracks, had on the far side a big hole filled with wild rose bushes. On their way to City Beach, Sis and her friend did not stop and push their bikes across like they had been advised many, many, times.
Sis lost control on the far side. She flipped down into the hole with the rose bushes. When she limped into the house on her friend's arm, blood streamed from her knees, a large cut gaped on her chin, scratches and rose thorns were all over her. An awful mess, Sis was sore for a long time.
I don't remember Danny having any major wrecks, but Dennis had his share. He and brother Dave were on their way home from the ball field, riding way too fast, because they were late as usual. Dennis led. He checked back over his shoulder and ran right smack into the back of a parked pickup. He did the usual flip, ended up in the back of the pickup and was sure he was dead.
Story 27 Apples
Haskell Creek is a pleasant little stream of mountain water that wanders out of Haskell basin, through fields and farms providing water for livestock and irrigation. My boys loved to ride out there and fish for brookies.
Danny and Davey found the best way to make the three-mile bike ride easier and they shared it with Danny's sidekick and Dennis.
"No," Danny instructed, "not like that. You need to use lots of tape."
"But won't your dad get mad if we use all his tape."
"No, he's got lots." Danny wound and wound the black electrician's tape around the fishing pole and bike cross bar. With the poles safely secured, he stuck the rest into the bait can and slipped its string handle over the handle bars.
They stuffed sandwiches in their pockets and away they went for a day of fun.
Peddling for a mile or so on East Second Street, they huffed and puffed up a long steep hill. On top, they stopped to catch their breath and assess the situation.
At the bottom sat a large gnarled apple tree off to the right where the big Fletcher kid liked to hide and bombarded the boys with apples as they rode by.
"Do you see him?" asked Dennis.
"No," answered Danny, reassuring his little brother.
"We'd better ride fast anyway," speculated Dennis.
"Yeah," called Danny as down he flew. They raced like the wind only faster.
Whap, an apple hit Danny's back.
"Faster," he cried. They sailed by with a few more apples finding their mark. They didn't do any lasting harm, accept to the Fletcher kid after my boys got into high school.
I have just a few more noteworthy things about bikes. When I asked Dan to help me remember bike stories, I found out something I never knew before. The boys used to ride down the curving hill to the boat dock at City Beach, take the jump out onto the wooden dock, pedal with rapid-fire thumpy-thumps on the rough boards and soar off the end landing with bike and rider in a great splash. This great fun lasted until the cops put a stop to it.
Dennis, always rather forgetful, lived kinda in his own little world. I sent him uptown to get a haircut. He rode his white ten speed to the barber shop. Three days later Dennis came into the house and asked if I knew where his bike was. I said no, but try and think back to the last time you used it.
Sure enough it was still parked in front of the barber shop.
Story 28 Mother Nature
The storm I remember most happened during the year Elmer moved us to Kansas. I had never been anyplace but in the nice sensible weather of the Flathead Valley. On the trip down he filled me in on his boyhood tales of twisters, wind and lightning. I hoped I never saw one.
One morning after kissing him goodby and sending him off to work, I hung my washing on the backyard clothesline under clear blue skies. A warm gentle breeze blew my kiddie's clothes, drying them almost as I hung them. The day smelled freshly sweet as I went inside and continued my chores at the slow steady pace I had learned was best with a baby resting in my womb.
The sky grew darker and darker. The wind began to howl. It became almost black outside and the wind blew the trees very hard. Their branches slashed and churned as pieces of green leafs scattered and blew across the yard. I thought they might break apart.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat down in the nearest living room chair.
"Come here," I called to Danny and Sis. I gathered them on my lap. Both little bodies felt tense as we huddled together, listening to the old two-story house creak in the roaring wind.
As quickly as it began the wind stopped, but then it began to rain. I mean buckets of rain. The streets ran full. Never had I seen so much water rain down. Everything appeared to drown as grass lay flat and trees dropped.
Finally the rain slowed bringing calm to my nerves. The kids slipped from my lap to play.
The door flew open with a gush of wet smelling air and in walked Elmer with shinning eyes. "A twister just passed on the edge of town," he grandly announced.
The lightning strike I was privileged to witness happened when we lived in Emerald Heights. Our house nestled among lots of tall pine trees. Dennis and I relaxed at the dining room, having a good visit.
Through the sliding-glass door we watched a summer storm work it's way across the sky. Our eyes grew big when an eerie blue light wrapped itself like a snake around one of the pine trees.
"BANG!
The tree flew apart!
Screeching, Dennis and I both jumped about ten feet in the air.
Elmer ran out of the bathroom. "DID YOU SEE THAT?" he yelled excitedly.
"YES!" Dennis and I yelled back. We all went outside to see the damage. Pieces of tree lay all over the front, the roof and all the way out into the back yard. I must say seeing lightning strike sure makes the adrenalin flow.
I thought Dennis and Deanna were both in hurricane Hugo. I couldn't understand why a mother in the Flathead Valley had to worry about a hurricane! No phone service was in operation for me to call my offspring to see if they were dead.
A few days later, first Sis called.
"No, Mom," she said, "we're not dead. They evacuated us inland. It was a fun experience and we're just fine.
Dennis finally reported in.
"No, Mom," he said, "I'm not dead. My ship docked in Baltimore."
"What about my grandchildren?"
"They're in Seattle. Their other Grandma sent plane tickets for a visit while I was out to sea."
"Are the apartment and car okay?"
"They're fine, but I'm sure sorry I didn't park the car at the end of the pier and let Hugo have it."
Dennis still has his old car and is still sorry Hugo didn't get it.
May 1980 was the date that Mount St. Helens blew her top. We awoke to ashes all over the ground. The schools closed for three days. The kids were thrilled to get a vacation on account of a volcano, but I was not. Little white masks which go over the nose and mouth became a new word in my mothers' vocabulary. When a child headed for the door, I admonished, "Be sure and put on your coat and mask." Slowly, the ashes were cleaned up and life returned to normal. Just "put on your coat" returned as my admonishment when a kid left the house.
I called my best friend and sister, Norma.
"What do you remember about the volcano?" I figured she would have a great harrowing story to tell me, because she lived in Seattle.
"All I remember," she answered, "is that I was at work and kinda felt a boom. I didn't know what it was or pay any attention to it until the news on T.V. told me. The ash never came my way. It all blew west -- Your WAY!!" She cackled.
I didn't.
Mother Nature had a good laugh at my poor southern-born husband. He has been in Montana for 38 years and still hates the winters. He states that winter starts in the month of August and doesn't get over until the following July. He maintains we have winter--breathing space--winter. He does admit when we do have summer, it is the best summer there is.
Since our earliest ancestors our family has loved bicycles. Elmer's first bike was a shared bike. His older sister bought an old used Hawthorn bike for eight dollars. She gave it to Elmer. The best part was he only had to share it with one brother, John. It served them well, with each getting his turn every other Saturday, but as with all shared things, difficulties arose.
As usual, Elmer pedaled the eleven blocks under the large shady oak trees that lined the streets of Chanute to the Saturday afternoon matinee. He parked the bike in the rusted metal bike rack, paid his dime, bought nickel popcorn and saved his last ten cents for a double dip ice cream cone on the way home.
After watching a Gene Autry double feature with his buddies, he went to get the bike. It wasn't where he carefully left it. Aghast, he and his buddies searched the area, but found nothing.
His heart banged against his chest as he ran all the way home to report the missing bike. He hit the front door. "Someone stole our bike," he announced with a chalky white face.
"It's out back," said John. "I took it."
Elmer blinked a couple of times. "You took the bike! It was my turn!"
"What-cha gonna do about it?"
Elmer simmered all week waiting. The next Saturday afternoon he just happened to walk by the theater. There the bike dared him to take it. He thought it over and decided even though John was bigger he would be on the bike, and there was no way John could catch him.
John caught him and made sure that Elmer didn't take it again when it wasn't his turn.
Their mom made sure John didn't take it when it wasn't his turn.
The bike I remember is the new one my friend Rose got for her birthday the summer before seventh grade. She called me the day of her birthday.
"Hi," she said. "Guess what I got for my birthday?"
"What?" I asked back.
"A new bike."
"Oh." The sin of envy began in my soul.
"I'm going to ride out and show you."
"Okay," I agreed, hanging up. She rode into the yard on a brand new Schwinn, all pink and pretty. My envy grew. My dad kept us supplied with used bikes. They needed tires changed and wheels straightened all the time. They did get us where we wanted to go, but oh how I admired that pink Schwinn.
Danny continued this love for two-wheel transportation.
"I am, too, old enough to have a bike," he had whined over and over.
"No three-year-old is old enough for a bike." I answered. I repeated this every day to Danny until the day Elmer came home with exciting news.
"I found a small red one down at the hardware store with training wheels," said Elmer. "I think he could handle it."
In about two weeks, Elmer removed the training wheels off and away he went.
That bike was used by each of our kids as they learned to ride, with Elmer taking training wheels off and putting them back on. It also served as a learning bike for about ten neighborhood kids. It really looked it.
We lived on West Eighth Street when Davey learned to ride. The sloped front yard had a Mountain Ash tree in its center. After Davey pushed the bike to the end of the gravel driveway, he got onboard and peddled back, carefully guiding it through the open gate.
He gathered speed as down the slope he went. His timing perfect, he reached up and grabbed the lowest branch of the Ash tree. As he hung onto the branch, the little rusty, dented bike continued on down the gentle slope. It was much easier on the tree and the bike when Davey finally learned how to use the brakes.
When we bought Danny a yellow, banana seated bike with winged handlebars, Sis inherited the little red one, and I had an old Schwinn bike I bought from Norma. David used the little red one when Sis wasn't, and Dennis had Davey's tricycle.
One fine summer day, while I put Sis' folded clothes away, I found a twenty-dollar bill in her drawer. I was shocked! When she came in from playing, we had a discussion. I wanted to know where that money came from. Hanging her head, she said, "I sold your bike." I said, "What!" She said, "I sold your bike." I asked, "To who?" She said, "To the little girl down the street." I asked, "Why?" She said, "So we could ride bikes together." Have you ever explained to another child's mother that your bike was not for sale, here's the twenty dollars back and that you want the bike?
Time passed. Sis grew into my old bike, Dan still had the yellow, banana-seated one, and the little rusty red one was completely worn out and needed to be retired.
Besides we had listened to the two little boys whine about needing bikes of their own long enough. Their legitimate arguments that Danny already had two new ones and everyone else in the whole world has new ones got passed our pocket books.
Elmer went to Kalispell and returned home with two Schwinn bicycles. They were 20-inchers; one was blue and one was green. Davey and Dennis were beside themselves with glee. Both hopped on and rode like the wind. Dennis kinda wobbled on his, but before long he could keep right up with the bigger kids. He spent his life trying to keep up with the bigger kids.
A few blocks from where we lived was a neat hill. The kids called it "Slingshot Hill" because it had a big sharp turn in it. At the bottom, a narrow path led to the foot bridge. Beside the path was a large pile of dirt that made a great jump. The boys would ride like the wind down the hill, around the sharp curve, enter the narrow path, fly over the dirt pile and sail out over the river on the bridge. Woe be to anyone walking on the foot bridge. This routine was repeated time and time again, day after day.
Elmer never could figure out why the bikes looked so beat up.
Story 26 Wrecks
Of course with four kids riding hell-bent-for-leather all over town, we had some memorable wrecks. One in particular stands out in my mind. It was summer, and the kids were going to ride over to the city beach for a swim. All the kids had tender skin so being a good mother, I made them wear white tee shirts when they went into the water.
After they left, I peacefully did housework in the quiet kitchen. All of a sudden the back door flew open and Davey hobbled in, emitting an awful sound. It was somewhere between I should be dead, but I'm not.
I rushed over to see if he was half dead. Tire tracks ran across the white tee shirt. I blinked and looked again. Sure enough a perfect set of bike tracks angled across his chest.
"What happened?" I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know.
Davey hiccupped twice, snuffed nose-tears twice. "We were racing," he said in his best almost dead voice, "and I was in the lead," hiccup, snuff. "I was even beating Danny! When I looked back to see how close they were, my front tire slid smack dab down into a crack."
"What crack?"
"You know the weigh scales in front of the cop shop?"
I nodded.
"I did a perfect flip over the handlebars," he continued with even a better dead voice, "landing on my back. Danny ran right over me. See right here." He pointed to his shirt.
I ascertained no bones were broken, that he would live, and gave him a hug. "I'm sure Danny didn't mean to run over you."
Davey nodded against my shoulder. "He tried to stop." He snuffed a couple more times, then off he went to try to get to the lake for that swim.
Another one of the wrecks that half killed one of the kids was caused by not listening to Elmer. If only the kids would have listened to their Dad's warnings, many griefs could have been avoided. One of the strict warnings was: "Don't ride your bike over the viaduct. Always get off and push your bike over." We heard from Elmer's co-workers every now and then, "Saw your boys riding across the viaduct the other day..." Elmer would come home from work and once again tell those kids to push their bikes across the viaduct. All this is leading up to Sis' great wreck.
The viaduct, a narrow bridge that went over the railroad tracks, had on the far side a big hole filled with wild rose bushes. On their way to City Beach, Sis and her friend did not stop and push their bikes across like they had been advised many, many, times.
Sis lost control on the far side. She flipped down into the hole with the rose bushes. When she limped into the house on her friend's arm, blood streamed from her knees, a large cut gaped on her chin, scratches and rose thorns were all over her. An awful mess, Sis was sore for a long time.
I don't remember Danny having any major wrecks, but Dennis had his share. He and brother Dave were on their way home from the ball field, riding way too fast, because they were late as usual. Dennis led. He checked back over his shoulder and ran right smack into the back of a parked pickup. He did the usual flip, ended up in the back of the pickup and was sure he was dead.
Story 27 Apples
Haskell Creek is a pleasant little stream of mountain water that wanders out of Haskell basin, through fields and farms providing water for livestock and irrigation. My boys loved to ride out there and fish for brookies.
Danny and Davey found the best way to make the three-mile bike ride easier and they shared it with Danny's sidekick and Dennis.
"No," Danny instructed, "not like that. You need to use lots of tape."
"But won't your dad get mad if we use all his tape."
"No, he's got lots." Danny wound and wound the black electrician's tape around the fishing pole and bike cross bar. With the poles safely secured, he stuck the rest into the bait can and slipped its string handle over the handle bars.
They stuffed sandwiches in their pockets and away they went for a day of fun.
Peddling for a mile or so on East Second Street, they huffed and puffed up a long steep hill. On top, they stopped to catch their breath and assess the situation.
At the bottom sat a large gnarled apple tree off to the right where the big Fletcher kid liked to hide and bombarded the boys with apples as they rode by.
"Do you see him?" asked Dennis.
"No," answered Danny, reassuring his little brother.
"We'd better ride fast anyway," speculated Dennis.
"Yeah," called Danny as down he flew. They raced like the wind only faster.
Whap, an apple hit Danny's back.
"Faster," he cried. They sailed by with a few more apples finding their mark. They didn't do any lasting harm, accept to the Fletcher kid after my boys got into high school.
I have just a few more noteworthy things about bikes. When I asked Dan to help me remember bike stories, I found out something I never knew before. The boys used to ride down the curving hill to the boat dock at City Beach, take the jump out onto the wooden dock, pedal with rapid-fire thumpy-thumps on the rough boards and soar off the end landing with bike and rider in a great splash. This great fun lasted until the cops put a stop to it.
Dennis, always rather forgetful, lived kinda in his own little world. I sent him uptown to get a haircut. He rode his white ten speed to the barber shop. Three days later Dennis came into the house and asked if I knew where his bike was. I said no, but try and think back to the last time you used it.
Sure enough it was still parked in front of the barber shop.
Story 28 Mother Nature
The storm I remember most happened during the year Elmer moved us to Kansas. I had never been anyplace but in the nice sensible weather of the Flathead Valley. On the trip down he filled me in on his boyhood tales of twisters, wind and lightning. I hoped I never saw one.
One morning after kissing him goodby and sending him off to work, I hung my washing on the backyard clothesline under clear blue skies. A warm gentle breeze blew my kiddie's clothes, drying them almost as I hung them. The day smelled freshly sweet as I went inside and continued my chores at the slow steady pace I had learned was best with a baby resting in my womb.
The sky grew darker and darker. The wind began to howl. It became almost black outside and the wind blew the trees very hard. Their branches slashed and churned as pieces of green leafs scattered and blew across the yard. I thought they might break apart.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat down in the nearest living room chair.
"Come here," I called to Danny and Sis. I gathered them on my lap. Both little bodies felt tense as we huddled together, listening to the old two-story house creak in the roaring wind.
As quickly as it began the wind stopped, but then it began to rain. I mean buckets of rain. The streets ran full. Never had I seen so much water rain down. Everything appeared to drown as grass lay flat and trees dropped.
Finally the rain slowed bringing calm to my nerves. The kids slipped from my lap to play.
The door flew open with a gush of wet smelling air and in walked Elmer with shinning eyes. "A twister just passed on the edge of town," he grandly announced.
The lightning strike I was privileged to witness happened when we lived in Emerald Heights. Our house nestled among lots of tall pine trees. Dennis and I relaxed at the dining room, having a good visit.
Through the sliding-glass door we watched a summer storm work it's way across the sky. Our eyes grew big when an eerie blue light wrapped itself like a snake around one of the pine trees.
"BANG!
The tree flew apart!
Screeching, Dennis and I both jumped about ten feet in the air.
Elmer ran out of the bathroom. "DID YOU SEE THAT?" he yelled excitedly.
"YES!" Dennis and I yelled back. We all went outside to see the damage. Pieces of tree lay all over the front, the roof and all the way out into the back yard. I must say seeing lightning strike sure makes the adrenalin flow.
I thought Dennis and Deanna were both in hurricane Hugo. I couldn't understand why a mother in the Flathead Valley had to worry about a hurricane! No phone service was in operation for me to call my offspring to see if they were dead.
A few days later, first Sis called.
"No, Mom," she said, "we're not dead. They evacuated us inland. It was a fun experience and we're just fine.
Dennis finally reported in.
"No, Mom," he said, "I'm not dead. My ship docked in Baltimore."
"What about my grandchildren?"
"They're in Seattle. Their other Grandma sent plane tickets for a visit while I was out to sea."
"Are the apartment and car okay?"
"They're fine, but I'm sure sorry I didn't park the car at the end of the pier and let Hugo have it."
Dennis still has his old car and is still sorry Hugo didn't get it.
May 1980 was the date that Mount St. Helens blew her top. We awoke to ashes all over the ground. The schools closed for three days. The kids were thrilled to get a vacation on account of a volcano, but I was not. Little white masks which go over the nose and mouth became a new word in my mothers' vocabulary. When a child headed for the door, I admonished, "Be sure and put on your coat and mask." Slowly, the ashes were cleaned up and life returned to normal. Just "put on your coat" returned as my admonishment when a kid left the house.
I called my best friend and sister, Norma.
"What do you remember about the volcano?" I figured she would have a great harrowing story to tell me, because she lived in Seattle.
"All I remember," she answered, "is that I was at work and kinda felt a boom. I didn't know what it was or pay any attention to it until the news on T.V. told me. The ash never came my way. It all blew west -- Your WAY!!" She cackled.
I didn't.
Mother Nature had a good laugh at my poor southern-born husband. He has been in Montana for 38 years and still hates the winters. He states that winter starts in the month of August and doesn't get over until the following July. He maintains we have winter--breathing space--winter. He does admit when we do have summer, it is the best summer there is.
Story 29
"Fire"
My brother's friend stood gazing out Alan's living room window watching Dad burn dry grass. Every spring for as long as I can remember Dad burned away the old dead grass from the year before. This leaves the ground blackened, but within a week or two real nice green grass appears. Ray continued to watch the seventy-five-year-old keeping up with the spreading fire.
"Does your dad need some help?" asked Ray.
"Naw, Dad has been burning stuff forever," Al answered from his easy chair. "He can handle it."
Still watching, Ray muses, "I think your dad needs help."
Al still is not concerned.
Ray leaned his potbelly close to the windowpane. He blinked several times. "Your Dad needs help," he stated.
"Oh for Pete's-sake," he said, "let me see what you are yakking about." Getting up, Al lumbered his large body on arthritic knees to the window. He took a look and calmly said, "Yeah, Dad needs help. CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT!"
Out the door they ran! The field was on fire, spreading to the neighbors. The old barn was in flames. A junk car of the neighbors smolder away. Up by her house, Mom beat fire dead.
All the neighbors arrived to help, and Hallelujah the fire truck showed up.
"Heard you set the world on fire," I teased Dad the next time I saw him.
"I was okay until my old rake broke," he answered a touch on the defensive. Our gift to Dad the next Christmas was a new rake.
Grandpa Yeats found way too many mites in the chicken coop. This coop was Uncle Will's pride and joy. He had apprenticed as a young boy in Scotland to be a carpenter and used his knowledge to build the perfect hen house. It had a room for nesting, a room for laying and a room for scratching, all built on a cement floor for easy cleaning.
Grandpa Yeats detested mites, and figured the best way to be rid of the things was to scorch them with his handy-dandy blow torch. When Grandpa finished, the only thing left was the cement floor and a pile of smoldering ashes. The neighbors took great delight in this. For years thereafter, great belly-laughs were heard accompanied with the words, "How's the hen house, Will?"
Davey had a real fascination with fire as a child. He inherited it from his grandfather and his Great-Grandpa Yeats. I worried he was a pyromaniac! He stole matches every chance he got. I was visiting at a cousin one day, when Davey slipped some matches and went outside.
The cousin's kid barreled in the back door.
"Davey set the dog house on fire."
We dashed outside. Sure enough the straw-filled dog house smoldered, black smoke rose in the air, and down-trodden with sin, Davey hid by a bush near the fence.
Another time I went to check on the little boys and saw black smoke bellowing from under out neighbors' front porch. I put that one out with his hose. Hard to explain to an old man you sure are sorry your kid set fire to his house.
Davey continued sneaking matches whenever he could. I did everything to break him, even burnt the ends of a few fingers. That resulted only in pure guilt.
We moved to West Seventh. Behind this house was an old shed with a loft full of straw. One warm summer day I glanced out the kitchen window. Smoke rose in a thick cloud from the small loft opening. I rushed outside.
"Davey," I yelled.
No answer.
Flames flared up!
"Davey, you answer me right now!" I screamed.
I got no answer! I started climbing up to go inside! How in the devil am I going to find him in the smoke?
"I FOUND HIM!" Danny voice stopped me. My whole body collapsed with relief at the best words I ever heard.
Davey, hidden on the other side of the house, knew he was in bad trouble, and he was.
The neighbors helped and Elmer came home from work. Soon we managed to get the fire out. This scared Davey so bad he never played with matches again.
Story 30 My Misdemeanors
"NO, I DID NOT CUT MOM'S PARAKEET'S WINGS!" This is a misdemeanor I was blamed for. I just wanted to once and for all set the record straight.
But the accusation did lead to my innocent crime. I can still remember the words...
"No, I promise I didn't cut them," I said to Mom and Norma's questioning stares. Mom had discovered her parakeet's wings were mysteriously cut.
"I bet you did it," said Norma.
"I did not!"
"I bet you did!"
"Mom, I didn't do it." My eyes pleaded with her.
"I can't tell who's telling the truth," said Mom as she stomped into the kitchen.
I ran out the door and down the Saddle-Club path to the cemetery.
School had only been out for the summer a few days and already Norma caused me grief. We got along better while school was in session. She was in the high school building which sat right next to my junior-high, but we were worlds apart. Her friends kept her busy and I was with mine all the time.
Passing under the cemetery's three-wire fence, I crouched very low so my shirt wouldn't snag on the barbs. I wandered over to Grandpa's tree and hunkered down, leaning against the rough bark.
The cemetery was all decked out for Memorial Day. Cans of bright flowers and wreaths decorated most of the graves. The day before Mom and I picked tulips, peonies, and lavender lilacs for Grandpa's grave. I brought a few extras to place on forgotten-baby graves.
I sat fuming and gazing into space, then I noticed down toward the far end the most beautiful wreath I had ever seen. It stood tall on a thin metal tripod and had an enormous round wreath of red roses. I looked down at Grandpa's flowers. They were pretty, but nothing compared to that wreath. It must have cost a lot. We never spent money on flowers for Grandpa's grave.
After wandering toward the wreath for a closer look-see, I stood in awe before it, then glanced back at Grandpa's flowers. Picking the wreath up was awkward. It was heavy and had no place to hold onto except the metal legs, but I managed to carry it all the way to Grandpa. I placed it right in front of his stone.
It looked wonderful. It belonged there. I carried the juice can full of Grandpa's flowers back to the other grave and set it very carefully in the exact same spot the wreath had been. Pleased to have given Grandpa such a grand gift, I headed home.
That evening after the police left, Mom came to my room. I was sent me there after my confession about giving the wreath to Grandpa. She stood just inside my doorway staring at me.
"Why?" she finally asked.
"I wanted Grandpa to have that beautiful wreath."
Mother listed off the sins I had committed. "Thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not covet; thou shalt honor your mother and father by behaving in a decent way, and thou shalt be grounded day and night for the rest of your natural life."
Our biggest crime was a joint effort by Norma, Alan, Jeanie, Bernie and me. It was committed in the innocence of need. We needed a deeper swimming hole because we came up with a better design for a diving board. Master builder Norma suggested we plug the culvert that ran under the road so the creek couldn't flow through and viola we would have a small lake.
It took most of the day just to build the dam and we decided the diving board would have to wait until morning, and besides we didn't want to be late for supper, and besides that the lake would have a chance to grow.
Late that evening we were all gathered in the living room and Mom was reading a chapter from Luke when car lights played against the picture window.
"Now who could that be?" asked Mom. She went to the door.
"It's the sheriff," she announced. Dad joined her on the porch steps.
We stared at each other.
"Well," said Dad when they reentered, "you kids managed to shut off the water to the downstream farmers and their hopping mad." He pointed to the stairs. "Get to bed all of you. I just hope one of the farmers catches you while he's still mad."
As adults we all have things we remember, which we were accused of doing, but didn't do. How is a parent to know which kid did what all the time? I personally believe there are little people who live in the mop boards by the name of "Not Me." A whole colony lived at our house.
A few crimes I did solve; Danny was the one who cut off Wade's (that was the three-year-old neighbor with beautiful long curls on top of his head) hair with the play scissors. Davey and Dennis pulled the tops off the prize tulips that belonged to the neighbor lady who was the mother to the three-year-old with shorter hair. I bet that neighbor lady was glad to see us move.
This reminds me of great-Aunt Reba's last visit. This was after I married Elmer and had my own kids. The six of us lived in a small rented house which contained one bathroom. It sat at the back of the house and had a double-pane window which opened at the top. A nice blue lacy curtain covered the bottom for privacy.
Aunt Reba waited her turn for a morning bath and finally entered the warm sudsy water to relax. My boys had left early to play near the pond, which contained the usual assortment of things which fascinate boys. Deep grass for playing war, frogs, turtles and water snakes.
I heard the most God-awful scream come through the bathroom door and enter the kitchen where I stood baking oatmeal cookies. This was followed by another scream and blue words. Some I wasn't sure of. I glanced up to see a soapy, dripping, towel-wrapped Aunt Reba. Tall, she stood there with her red hair and hooked nose flaring.
"You better kill your boys before I do," she said through clenched teeth and thin lips.
"Okay. Why am I killing them?"
"They just dangled a snake through the window at me!"
"Rope or gun?"
"Stretch their scrawny little necks." She stomped away from the doorway leaving behind a pool of suds.
My brother's friend stood gazing out Alan's living room window watching Dad burn dry grass. Every spring for as long as I can remember Dad burned away the old dead grass from the year before. This leaves the ground blackened, but within a week or two real nice green grass appears. Ray continued to watch the seventy-five-year-old keeping up with the spreading fire.
"Does your dad need some help?" asked Ray.
"Naw, Dad has been burning stuff forever," Al answered from his easy chair. "He can handle it."
Still watching, Ray muses, "I think your dad needs help."
Al still is not concerned.
Ray leaned his potbelly close to the windowpane. He blinked several times. "Your Dad needs help," he stated.
"Oh for Pete's-sake," he said, "let me see what you are yakking about." Getting up, Al lumbered his large body on arthritic knees to the window. He took a look and calmly said, "Yeah, Dad needs help. CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT!"
Out the door they ran! The field was on fire, spreading to the neighbors. The old barn was in flames. A junk car of the neighbors smolder away. Up by her house, Mom beat fire dead.
All the neighbors arrived to help, and Hallelujah the fire truck showed up.
"Heard you set the world on fire," I teased Dad the next time I saw him.
"I was okay until my old rake broke," he answered a touch on the defensive. Our gift to Dad the next Christmas was a new rake.
Grandpa Yeats found way too many mites in the chicken coop. This coop was Uncle Will's pride and joy. He had apprenticed as a young boy in Scotland to be a carpenter and used his knowledge to build the perfect hen house. It had a room for nesting, a room for laying and a room for scratching, all built on a cement floor for easy cleaning.
Grandpa Yeats detested mites, and figured the best way to be rid of the things was to scorch them with his handy-dandy blow torch. When Grandpa finished, the only thing left was the cement floor and a pile of smoldering ashes. The neighbors took great delight in this. For years thereafter, great belly-laughs were heard accompanied with the words, "How's the hen house, Will?"
Davey had a real fascination with fire as a child. He inherited it from his grandfather and his Great-Grandpa Yeats. I worried he was a pyromaniac! He stole matches every chance he got. I was visiting at a cousin one day, when Davey slipped some matches and went outside.
The cousin's kid barreled in the back door.
"Davey set the dog house on fire."
We dashed outside. Sure enough the straw-filled dog house smoldered, black smoke rose in the air, and down-trodden with sin, Davey hid by a bush near the fence.
Another time I went to check on the little boys and saw black smoke bellowing from under out neighbors' front porch. I put that one out with his hose. Hard to explain to an old man you sure are sorry your kid set fire to his house.
Davey continued sneaking matches whenever he could. I did everything to break him, even burnt the ends of a few fingers. That resulted only in pure guilt.
We moved to West Seventh. Behind this house was an old shed with a loft full of straw. One warm summer day I glanced out the kitchen window. Smoke rose in a thick cloud from the small loft opening. I rushed outside.
"Davey," I yelled.
No answer.
Flames flared up!
"Davey, you answer me right now!" I screamed.
I got no answer! I started climbing up to go inside! How in the devil am I going to find him in the smoke?
"I FOUND HIM!" Danny voice stopped me. My whole body collapsed with relief at the best words I ever heard.
Davey, hidden on the other side of the house, knew he was in bad trouble, and he was.
The neighbors helped and Elmer came home from work. Soon we managed to get the fire out. This scared Davey so bad he never played with matches again.
Story 30 My Misdemeanors
"NO, I DID NOT CUT MOM'S PARAKEET'S WINGS!" This is a misdemeanor I was blamed for. I just wanted to once and for all set the record straight.
But the accusation did lead to my innocent crime. I can still remember the words...
"No, I promise I didn't cut them," I said to Mom and Norma's questioning stares. Mom had discovered her parakeet's wings were mysteriously cut.
"I bet you did it," said Norma.
"I did not!"
"I bet you did!"
"Mom, I didn't do it." My eyes pleaded with her.
"I can't tell who's telling the truth," said Mom as she stomped into the kitchen.
I ran out the door and down the Saddle-Club path to the cemetery.
School had only been out for the summer a few days and already Norma caused me grief. We got along better while school was in session. She was in the high school building which sat right next to my junior-high, but we were worlds apart. Her friends kept her busy and I was with mine all the time.
Passing under the cemetery's three-wire fence, I crouched very low so my shirt wouldn't snag on the barbs. I wandered over to Grandpa's tree and hunkered down, leaning against the rough bark.
The cemetery was all decked out for Memorial Day. Cans of bright flowers and wreaths decorated most of the graves. The day before Mom and I picked tulips, peonies, and lavender lilacs for Grandpa's grave. I brought a few extras to place on forgotten-baby graves.
I sat fuming and gazing into space, then I noticed down toward the far end the most beautiful wreath I had ever seen. It stood tall on a thin metal tripod and had an enormous round wreath of red roses. I looked down at Grandpa's flowers. They were pretty, but nothing compared to that wreath. It must have cost a lot. We never spent money on flowers for Grandpa's grave.
After wandering toward the wreath for a closer look-see, I stood in awe before it, then glanced back at Grandpa's flowers. Picking the wreath up was awkward. It was heavy and had no place to hold onto except the metal legs, but I managed to carry it all the way to Grandpa. I placed it right in front of his stone.
It looked wonderful. It belonged there. I carried the juice can full of Grandpa's flowers back to the other grave and set it very carefully in the exact same spot the wreath had been. Pleased to have given Grandpa such a grand gift, I headed home.
That evening after the police left, Mom came to my room. I was sent me there after my confession about giving the wreath to Grandpa. She stood just inside my doorway staring at me.
"Why?" she finally asked.
"I wanted Grandpa to have that beautiful wreath."
Mother listed off the sins I had committed. "Thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not covet; thou shalt honor your mother and father by behaving in a decent way, and thou shalt be grounded day and night for the rest of your natural life."
Our biggest crime was a joint effort by Norma, Alan, Jeanie, Bernie and me. It was committed in the innocence of need. We needed a deeper swimming hole because we came up with a better design for a diving board. Master builder Norma suggested we plug the culvert that ran under the road so the creek couldn't flow through and viola we would have a small lake.
It took most of the day just to build the dam and we decided the diving board would have to wait until morning, and besides we didn't want to be late for supper, and besides that the lake would have a chance to grow.
Late that evening we were all gathered in the living room and Mom was reading a chapter from Luke when car lights played against the picture window.
"Now who could that be?" asked Mom. She went to the door.
"It's the sheriff," she announced. Dad joined her on the porch steps.
We stared at each other.
"Well," said Dad when they reentered, "you kids managed to shut off the water to the downstream farmers and their hopping mad." He pointed to the stairs. "Get to bed all of you. I just hope one of the farmers catches you while he's still mad."
As adults we all have things we remember, which we were accused of doing, but didn't do. How is a parent to know which kid did what all the time? I personally believe there are little people who live in the mop boards by the name of "Not Me." A whole colony lived at our house.
A few crimes I did solve; Danny was the one who cut off Wade's (that was the three-year-old neighbor with beautiful long curls on top of his head) hair with the play scissors. Davey and Dennis pulled the tops off the prize tulips that belonged to the neighbor lady who was the mother to the three-year-old with shorter hair. I bet that neighbor lady was glad to see us move.
This reminds me of great-Aunt Reba's last visit. This was after I married Elmer and had my own kids. The six of us lived in a small rented house which contained one bathroom. It sat at the back of the house and had a double-pane window which opened at the top. A nice blue lacy curtain covered the bottom for privacy.
Aunt Reba waited her turn for a morning bath and finally entered the warm sudsy water to relax. My boys had left early to play near the pond, which contained the usual assortment of things which fascinate boys. Deep grass for playing war, frogs, turtles and water snakes.
I heard the most God-awful scream come through the bathroom door and enter the kitchen where I stood baking oatmeal cookies. This was followed by another scream and blue words. Some I wasn't sure of. I glanced up to see a soapy, dripping, towel-wrapped Aunt Reba. Tall, she stood there with her red hair and hooked nose flaring.
"You better kill your boys before I do," she said through clenched teeth and thin lips.
"Okay. Why am I killing them?"
"They just dangled a snake through the window at me!"
"Rope or gun?"
"Stretch their scrawny little necks." She stomped away from the doorway leaving behind a pool of suds.
Story 31 Elmer's misdemeanors
Elmer's Uncle Olen was a tall thin man with great big hands. Real strong, what is called wiry strong. He worked at the smelters, but was always trying to find ways to make extra cash money. This fascinated his nephews and was usually lucrative enough to provide pocket money.
One time he drove his old truck all the way to Texas and brought back a whole load of different kinds of nuts. There were pecans, black walnuts and Brazil nuts (commonly known back then as nigger toes).
Of course, he needed his enterprising young nephews including eight-year-old Elmer to sack them, then go door to door selling them. Colored town was the best place for selling door to door.
Elmer knocked at one house.
"Lordy goodness," said a large Black woman when she opened the door. "what's a cute little tow head like you doing at my door?"
"Would you like to buy some Nigger toes?" Elmer blurted.
She merrily laughed.
"Come see what was at our door," she called to her husband.
He took a good look, then she bought some nuts.
Directly behind, Elmer's house was a Mom and Pop grocery store. In the summertime, it had a fruit stand out front. When produce got too ripe for selling, it was dumped in a garbage can back of the store.
This garbage can supplied a great many war weapons for the neighborhood kids. They would sneak over and pilfer the available produce.
One day the can yielded tomatoes which were just perfect, soft but not rotten. A number of neighborhood sheds provided great hiding places from the sworn enemy. The enemy could be a brother or a friend depending on whose side you were picked for that particular day.
After swiping the tomatoes and picking sides, the war could begin. Soon the battle was in full glory with each side killing off its share.
Elmer and several war buddies hunkered down between the sheds, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow.
"On the other side," he whispered, pointing. They let loose a fuselage of tomatoes up over the roof.
"WHAT THE HELL!"
At that moment Elmer knew he was dead meat.
Uncle Olen rounded the corner, grabbed the first soldier by the nap of the neck, lifted him up, grabbed his heels, turned him upside down, and whaled the tar out of him.
"It's a darn good thing you didn't hit me with a tomato, or you would really be in for it," declared Uncle Olen.
That soldier was Elmer.
Story 32 Budda
My brother's wife told me the best misdemeanor story. I laugh even as I write this. Tu is a small Vietnamese woman whom this family has grown to love very much with passing years. My brother had the good sense to marry her and bring her home to the Flathead after his tour of service in Veit Nam.
As the years passed, my brother Alan returned to going to church. Tu started to go with him. She learned about God. Tu, a Buddhist, confronted this whole different idea. She concluded that God was God, and that meant keeping her Buddha was not what she should do.
Tu's Buddha had sat on her dining room buffet ever since her arrival in the states. We had all grown used to him sitting there and even rubbed his belly for good luck, when our luck was running poor at penny-ante poker.
Tu continued to give this matter a great deal of thought. She decided to throw Buddha in the wood stove.
Unknowingly, I went to see her a few days after she had done this. After pouring me a cup of coffee, she walked over to the wood-burning stove in their dining room. She backed up to it warming her hands. Tu's face became serious.
"Oh, Mooree, I throw Buddha in stove."
"Why," I asked, "did you throw Buddha in the stove?"
Tu looked at me with her big brown, almond-shaped eyes even bigger than usual. "I know Buddha not God so I throw Buddha in stove," she announced.
"Okay," I said with a shrug.
She continued so fast I had a hard time understanding.
"He no burn up!"
"WHAT!"
"Yes," she nodded, "he no burn up. For three days every time I open door on stove, he stare at me! His eyes glow red!"
"What did you do?"
"I finally take poker and HIT HIM, AND HIT HIM! I say I SORRY BUDDHA, I SO SORRY BUDDHA!" Her hands poker jabbed the air, her eyes were saucers, then her shoulders slumped. "Finally he fall apart and burn up."
I stood with my mouth open, shaking my head, wondering how in the world do I explain about teak wood being vary hard and difficult to burn? I didn't even try.
About two months later Tu stopped by my house for a short visit and as she was leaving, she reached down into her pocket and pulled out a tiny object.
"Mooree, see what I got. You no tell Alan and Mama."
I looked, and there in her hand was a little, bitsy Buddha. It could not have been two inches long.
"I have to keep for good luck, but it no Buddha." She then said some different name that I don't remember. She stuck it down deep into her pocket, patted it and laughed, "He just for luck!"
I don't know, but it looked like a itty, bitsy Buddha to me.
I think God understands.
Story 33 The Volkswagen Rabbit
I feel our story will not be complete unless we include one of the more colorful and controversial members. This member was a shiny black Volkswagen Rabbit that will hereafter be referred to as the "Rabbit."
Through the mist of time this legend has taken on the scope of hilarity, but was a real cause of aggravation to Elmer. After our move to a house about three miles south of Whitefish, he informed me that with two sons still in high school, we needed to trade in my beautiful, brown, comfortable, drove and rode like a dream, Ford LTD, for something more economical.
We drove into Kalispell and made what Elmer called a "good deal" on the Rabbit. He drove it home with great delight, thinking of all the gas money he would save. We bought the Rabbit in 1980, and all went according to Elmer's plan until one day he came home after a trip to town to buy gas.
He entered through the backdoor with a puzzled frown.
"I went to light a cigarette and the cigarette lighter is gone. You know what happened?"
I shook my head no.
Upon Elmer's investigation of the mystery, he learned Dave had taken the Rabbit to the drive-in picture show. In the process of getting comfortable, he leaned his knee against the lighter. It got so hot it started to melt, soooo... the only sensible thing to do was toss it out the window.
The Rabbit's bright red interior had all things made of plastic. A wonderful sun roof which opened up the world, and let the wind blow your hair, a grand car for two sons to drive back and forth to school, ball practices, errands for me and a certain amount of dating and running around.
Elmer placed certain rules pertaining to the operation of the Rabbit. The gas tank was never to be on empty, only four people in the car at one time, and it was to be kept in a neat and clean condition at all times.
One day, after washing the windshield and picking pop cans from the back floor board, Elmer drove the rabbit to town to buy gas. The only time he got to drive it was when it needed gas. On his way home, he decided to roll down the window to let out his cigarette smoke -- there was no little plastic knob on the handle.
He entered through the backdoor with a scowl.
"Who broke the knob off the handle?" After much discussion it was determined it just fell off all by itself."
Elmer drove the Rabbit to work one day, after buying gas.
"I saw you in Missoula the other day, in your Rabbit," said a fellow worker." Well, neither Elmer nor I had been in Missoula for a long time. After much discussion it was determined David had been.
Elmer and I were driving to town one day in our old but faithful green Ford pickup, when we met a black Rabbit merrily going down the road with arms and legs sticking out of windows and heads poking out of the sun roof. At least fifteen kids were in the Rabbit having a good old time.
One of the frequent riders and, come to find out, drivers of the Rabbit was Dennis' side kick Robert. Elmer learned this when a big hole was discovered in the bottom of the radiator.
"I didn't do it. Robert did," explained Dennis.
Flabbergasted, Elmer stared at his son.
"You better tell me the rest of the story," he said.
"We were doing nothing wrong. We were just at a party in the woods and a stump got in Roberts way."
It was decided to let the Rabbit have a two-week rest and vacation.
On his way to Kalispell, Dennis entered the busy main intersection. It should be named Malfunction Junction. It was here that the Rabbit decided the front struts had lasted long enough and just dropped them off.
Amazing how things "just" fell off that car.
Poor Dennis called his Dad to come and help him. The cost of that one was about five hundred dollars.
Time passed and both boys grew and left home and bought cars of their own, but Elmer still drove the Rabbit to work. He discussed with me all the things that were wrong with the poor old Rabbit. I encouraged Elmer to trade off the battered Rabbit for a nice new little pickup. To my relief, he finally did.
A week or so later a fellow said to Elmer, "See your Rabbit is for sale out at the car lot. I was thinking of getting it for my son."
"FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T EVEN THINK OF IT," Elmer yelped.
Now when we have family get-togethers and the subject gets around to the Rabbit, we all have a good laugh, but Elmer refers to it as the "CAR FROM HELL!"
P.S. -- Strange how the memory forgets pleasant things. Elmer was once more on his way to town to buy gas, and when he went to shift, the gear shift JUST FELL OFF!
Elmer's Uncle Olen was a tall thin man with great big hands. Real strong, what is called wiry strong. He worked at the smelters, but was always trying to find ways to make extra cash money. This fascinated his nephews and was usually lucrative enough to provide pocket money.
One time he drove his old truck all the way to Texas and brought back a whole load of different kinds of nuts. There were pecans, black walnuts and Brazil nuts (commonly known back then as nigger toes).
Of course, he needed his enterprising young nephews including eight-year-old Elmer to sack them, then go door to door selling them. Colored town was the best place for selling door to door.
Elmer knocked at one house.
"Lordy goodness," said a large Black woman when she opened the door. "what's a cute little tow head like you doing at my door?"
"Would you like to buy some Nigger toes?" Elmer blurted.
She merrily laughed.
"Come see what was at our door," she called to her husband.
He took a good look, then she bought some nuts.
Directly behind, Elmer's house was a Mom and Pop grocery store. In the summertime, it had a fruit stand out front. When produce got too ripe for selling, it was dumped in a garbage can back of the store.
This garbage can supplied a great many war weapons for the neighborhood kids. They would sneak over and pilfer the available produce.
One day the can yielded tomatoes which were just perfect, soft but not rotten. A number of neighborhood sheds provided great hiding places from the sworn enemy. The enemy could be a brother or a friend depending on whose side you were picked for that particular day.
After swiping the tomatoes and picking sides, the war could begin. Soon the battle was in full glory with each side killing off its share.
Elmer and several war buddies hunkered down between the sheds, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow.
"On the other side," he whispered, pointing. They let loose a fuselage of tomatoes up over the roof.
"WHAT THE HELL!"
At that moment Elmer knew he was dead meat.
Uncle Olen rounded the corner, grabbed the first soldier by the nap of the neck, lifted him up, grabbed his heels, turned him upside down, and whaled the tar out of him.
"It's a darn good thing you didn't hit me with a tomato, or you would really be in for it," declared Uncle Olen.
That soldier was Elmer.
Story 32 Budda
My brother's wife told me the best misdemeanor story. I laugh even as I write this. Tu is a small Vietnamese woman whom this family has grown to love very much with passing years. My brother had the good sense to marry her and bring her home to the Flathead after his tour of service in Veit Nam.
As the years passed, my brother Alan returned to going to church. Tu started to go with him. She learned about God. Tu, a Buddhist, confronted this whole different idea. She concluded that God was God, and that meant keeping her Buddha was not what she should do.
Tu's Buddha had sat on her dining room buffet ever since her arrival in the states. We had all grown used to him sitting there and even rubbed his belly for good luck, when our luck was running poor at penny-ante poker.
Tu continued to give this matter a great deal of thought. She decided to throw Buddha in the wood stove.
Unknowingly, I went to see her a few days after she had done this. After pouring me a cup of coffee, she walked over to the wood-burning stove in their dining room. She backed up to it warming her hands. Tu's face became serious.
"Oh, Mooree, I throw Buddha in stove."
"Why," I asked, "did you throw Buddha in the stove?"
Tu looked at me with her big brown, almond-shaped eyes even bigger than usual. "I know Buddha not God so I throw Buddha in stove," she announced.
"Okay," I said with a shrug.
She continued so fast I had a hard time understanding.
"He no burn up!"
"WHAT!"
"Yes," she nodded, "he no burn up. For three days every time I open door on stove, he stare at me! His eyes glow red!"
"What did you do?"
"I finally take poker and HIT HIM, AND HIT HIM! I say I SORRY BUDDHA, I SO SORRY BUDDHA!" Her hands poker jabbed the air, her eyes were saucers, then her shoulders slumped. "Finally he fall apart and burn up."
I stood with my mouth open, shaking my head, wondering how in the world do I explain about teak wood being vary hard and difficult to burn? I didn't even try.
About two months later Tu stopped by my house for a short visit and as she was leaving, she reached down into her pocket and pulled out a tiny object.
"Mooree, see what I got. You no tell Alan and Mama."
I looked, and there in her hand was a little, bitsy Buddha. It could not have been two inches long.
"I have to keep for good luck, but it no Buddha." She then said some different name that I don't remember. She stuck it down deep into her pocket, patted it and laughed, "He just for luck!"
I don't know, but it looked like a itty, bitsy Buddha to me.
I think God understands.
Story 33 The Volkswagen Rabbit
I feel our story will not be complete unless we include one of the more colorful and controversial members. This member was a shiny black Volkswagen Rabbit that will hereafter be referred to as the "Rabbit."
Through the mist of time this legend has taken on the scope of hilarity, but was a real cause of aggravation to Elmer. After our move to a house about three miles south of Whitefish, he informed me that with two sons still in high school, we needed to trade in my beautiful, brown, comfortable, drove and rode like a dream, Ford LTD, for something more economical.
We drove into Kalispell and made what Elmer called a "good deal" on the Rabbit. He drove it home with great delight, thinking of all the gas money he would save. We bought the Rabbit in 1980, and all went according to Elmer's plan until one day he came home after a trip to town to buy gas.
He entered through the backdoor with a puzzled frown.
"I went to light a cigarette and the cigarette lighter is gone. You know what happened?"
I shook my head no.
Upon Elmer's investigation of the mystery, he learned Dave had taken the Rabbit to the drive-in picture show. In the process of getting comfortable, he leaned his knee against the lighter. It got so hot it started to melt, soooo... the only sensible thing to do was toss it out the window.
The Rabbit's bright red interior had all things made of plastic. A wonderful sun roof which opened up the world, and let the wind blow your hair, a grand car for two sons to drive back and forth to school, ball practices, errands for me and a certain amount of dating and running around.
Elmer placed certain rules pertaining to the operation of the Rabbit. The gas tank was never to be on empty, only four people in the car at one time, and it was to be kept in a neat and clean condition at all times.
One day, after washing the windshield and picking pop cans from the back floor board, Elmer drove the rabbit to town to buy gas. The only time he got to drive it was when it needed gas. On his way home, he decided to roll down the window to let out his cigarette smoke -- there was no little plastic knob on the handle.
He entered through the backdoor with a scowl.
"Who broke the knob off the handle?" After much discussion it was determined it just fell off all by itself."
Elmer drove the Rabbit to work one day, after buying gas.
"I saw you in Missoula the other day, in your Rabbit," said a fellow worker." Well, neither Elmer nor I had been in Missoula for a long time. After much discussion it was determined David had been.
Elmer and I were driving to town one day in our old but faithful green Ford pickup, when we met a black Rabbit merrily going down the road with arms and legs sticking out of windows and heads poking out of the sun roof. At least fifteen kids were in the Rabbit having a good old time.
One of the frequent riders and, come to find out, drivers of the Rabbit was Dennis' side kick Robert. Elmer learned this when a big hole was discovered in the bottom of the radiator.
"I didn't do it. Robert did," explained Dennis.
Flabbergasted, Elmer stared at his son.
"You better tell me the rest of the story," he said.
"We were doing nothing wrong. We were just at a party in the woods and a stump got in Roberts way."
It was decided to let the Rabbit have a two-week rest and vacation.
On his way to Kalispell, Dennis entered the busy main intersection. It should be named Malfunction Junction. It was here that the Rabbit decided the front struts had lasted long enough and just dropped them off.
Amazing how things "just" fell off that car.
Poor Dennis called his Dad to come and help him. The cost of that one was about five hundred dollars.
Time passed and both boys grew and left home and bought cars of their own, but Elmer still drove the Rabbit to work. He discussed with me all the things that were wrong with the poor old Rabbit. I encouraged Elmer to trade off the battered Rabbit for a nice new little pickup. To my relief, he finally did.
A week or so later a fellow said to Elmer, "See your Rabbit is for sale out at the car lot. I was thinking of getting it for my son."
"FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T EVEN THINK OF IT," Elmer yelped.
Now when we have family get-togethers and the subject gets around to the Rabbit, we all have a good laugh, but Elmer refers to it as the "CAR FROM HELL!"
P.S. -- Strange how the memory forgets pleasant things. Elmer was once more on his way to town to buy gas, and when he went to shift, the gear shift JUST FELL OFF!
Epilog
With all the stories and happenings for this family the weirdest one of all is suddenly, like overnight, Elmer and I are retired. Inside we are still that nineteen-year-old and sixteen-year-old, but are gray and wrinkled on the outside. We are the grandparents the younger generation come to visit and help when they can. Our passion is still alive, but has cooled to a steady deep sharing of life and love with complete acceptance of how we are. We no longer need to be right, and it is much easier to apologize if we are wrong. He takes care of me, and I of him. We have grown old together and it is nice.
Dan, the kids at school had shortened his name, got okay grades and went on to college. He married Karen. They gave me my first grandchild, a round, wonderful baby boy, followed in a few years by a gorgeous, wonderful baby girl. After graduation, Dan went on to the Highway Patrol Academy. The name he is now known by is Dan-Dan the Ticket Man.
On the swim team in high school, Sis did pretty well. She oil painted, got okay grades and was my handy helper. On Saturday, she dusted and helped with the vacuuming. During the week she helped me with the dishes. Sometimes she felt abused.
"I do more work than you boys ever thought of," she often announced to her lazy brothers.
"You do not!" They scoffed. They had a big eye opener when Sis got married. The first couple of days after she left, I did the dishes alone, but soon decided those big overgrown boys could certainly take over this chore.
It would have done Sis' heart good to hear them moan and groan, "We want Sis back!"
I also feel that way when I do the dusting. She did a better job. She did something else I really missed. She gave the best neck rubs as we watched television, working out all my aches.
Sis is happily married and works in a nursing home. Now she makes her elderly angels and her husband laugh.
David's best things in high school were running around and golf team. His grades were okay and he graduated. He went to work for America Timber, married and gave me three wonderful granddaughters to play with.
Dennis grew to be a big strong kid. He liked all sports in high school, got good grades and graduated. He enlisted in the Coast Guard for four years, married and gave me three more grandchildren to love.
Norma became a registered nurse. After a full career, she opted for a supervisor's position at a nursing home, where she rules her halls and wards in Normbo fashion.
Elmer and I are now retired and live in Kalispell. The most important thing we learned through all the growing up and raising our kids is that great-grandchildren are the best blessing of all. I hope you've enjoyed my rambling ons as much as I have dwelling in memories.
With all the stories and happenings for this family the weirdest one of all is suddenly, like overnight, Elmer and I are retired. Inside we are still that nineteen-year-old and sixteen-year-old, but are gray and wrinkled on the outside. We are the grandparents the younger generation come to visit and help when they can. Our passion is still alive, but has cooled to a steady deep sharing of life and love with complete acceptance of how we are. We no longer need to be right, and it is much easier to apologize if we are wrong. He takes care of me, and I of him. We have grown old together and it is nice.
Dan, the kids at school had shortened his name, got okay grades and went on to college. He married Karen. They gave me my first grandchild, a round, wonderful baby boy, followed in a few years by a gorgeous, wonderful baby girl. After graduation, Dan went on to the Highway Patrol Academy. The name he is now known by is Dan-Dan the Ticket Man.
On the swim team in high school, Sis did pretty well. She oil painted, got okay grades and was my handy helper. On Saturday, she dusted and helped with the vacuuming. During the week she helped me with the dishes. Sometimes she felt abused.
"I do more work than you boys ever thought of," she often announced to her lazy brothers.
"You do not!" They scoffed. They had a big eye opener when Sis got married. The first couple of days after she left, I did the dishes alone, but soon decided those big overgrown boys could certainly take over this chore.
It would have done Sis' heart good to hear them moan and groan, "We want Sis back!"
I also feel that way when I do the dusting. She did a better job. She did something else I really missed. She gave the best neck rubs as we watched television, working out all my aches.
Sis is happily married and works in a nursing home. Now she makes her elderly angels and her husband laugh.
David's best things in high school were running around and golf team. His grades were okay and he graduated. He went to work for America Timber, married and gave me three wonderful granddaughters to play with.
Dennis grew to be a big strong kid. He liked all sports in high school, got good grades and graduated. He enlisted in the Coast Guard for four years, married and gave me three more grandchildren to love.
Norma became a registered nurse. After a full career, she opted for a supervisor's position at a nursing home, where she rules her halls and wards in Normbo fashion.
Elmer and I are now retired and live in Kalispell. The most important thing we learned through all the growing up and raising our kids is that great-grandchildren are the best blessing of all. I hope you've enjoyed my rambling ons as much as I have dwelling in memories.
The following pictures I thought I would add just for fun. When I suffered from the empty nest syndrome Elmer bought me golf clubs and told me to take some lessons, which I did. I love the game. The picture of the grandkids was one of the slumber parties at my house. We did this every summer. They all now have families of their own. Amazing.
Nurse Norma is now retired, but the profession carried down. Two of the granddaughters are RNs. They are spitfires, too.
