by jphilo | Oct 13, 2014 | Family, Reflections on the Past
Had I been thinking straight way back in June, when I posted a chapter from Lessons from My Father, this would have been the chapter to start with. Now that I am thinking straight and you’re scratching your head about where my parents’ story began, the answer can be found below. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to introduce the bride and groom to you: Harlan and Dorothy Stratton.
The Perfect Picture
And he said,
Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
And naked I shall return there.
The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Job 1: 21
“Hello, world, here I come!” he seems to shout from his wedding picture. His broad grin turns his cheeks into plump apples, the dress suit hanging awkwardly on his 250 pound frame. “I’m in here just to humor her,” the twinkle in his eye seems to say. “Just a few more pictures, and I’ll be knee deep in manure again.”
“How will I keep up with him?” her shy smile asks the camera. Wearing her sister’s wedding dress, she looks stylish and petite, but slightly out of place. Her hands, rendered large as a man’s by years of milking, are hidden by her bouquet, her muscular arms covered by bridal lace. “I’d rather be in the barn,” she whispers to the generations gazing at her face.
Exuberant and ready to embrace rural life in the 1950s, they faced the photographer’s camera with confidence. With a honeymoon highlighted by a Chicago Cubs game and a tour of the Chicago Stockyards, could they be anything but Midwestern farmers? A registered Shorthorn breeding business needed building when they returned. They were ready to live the dream they had planned and worked for since they had met in college three years before. They would farm in partnership with his parents, Cyril and Fern, a loving couple who doted upon their only child, my father. They would raise a family, a big family, with lots of kids to help on the farm and keep one another company. They were young, strong, talented, and willing to do all that was necessary to realize their dreams. It was June 3, 1951. Harlan and Dorothy Stratton had the pieces of their married life collected and ready to assemble into a wonderful picture. Over the next thirteen years, like a jigsaw puzzle in reverse, the pieces disappeared, snatched away until none remained.
The picture, at first, came together just as planned. My father and his father quickly built up a herd of Shorthorns. They were poised to provide quality stock to farmers all over the Midwest. My parents had their first child, Jill, in 1953, and she was the apple of her grandparents’ eyes. Then, Fern’s health took a turn for the worse, and everything changed. Her colon cancer progressed at an alarming pace, and the resulting medical bills threatened to devour the farm. Harlan and Cyril dissolved their farming partnership and sold their assets, so that both families were not ruined. That was in 1954. The first piece of the perfect picture was gone.
In 1955, the second piece was removed. Fern Stratton died of colon cancer after a long and agonizing struggle. She was fifty-five years old.
Life as farmers denied them, the couple decided to do the next best thing. Harlan would pursue a career in the Extension Service, through which he could stay close to agricultural life, rubbing elbows with the farmers who tended the fields and animals he loved. Harlan’s exuberance and skill made him a popular and effective county agent. He advanced rapidly in a career to which his personality, training, and experience were perfectly suited. He read voraciously, mostly about agriculture, his nearly photographic memory adding book knowledge to the practical experience he gained working throughout the county. He spent his days traveling the countryside, consulting with farmers about their crops and livestock, providing for them the latest research available from Iowa State University, a land grant college founded to assist the development of agriculture. His expertise with cattle brought him numerous opportunities to train farm kids in the art of showing cattle and made him a sought-after cattle judge at many county fairs.
Dorothy was a busy mother and housewife. She was content to support her husband, complementing his gregarious personality with her own shy competence. She enjoyed basking in the shadow of Harlan’s successes, dedicating herself to her family, which had grown to two when I was born in 1956. Whenever she had the chance, she took education classes at the nearby college. She wanted to complete her four-year teaching degree to become one of the first in her family to graduate from college. “Besides,” she told the housewives who questioned her drive to get her bachelors degree, “it’s a good thing to have, just in case I ever need it.”
Just as they settled into their new lives in Malvern, Iowa, where Dad was the new county extension agent, a doctor pulled away another piece of the puzzle in 1958. Harlan had ignored coordination problems and double vision that came and went for several years. When he couldn’t pass the vision screening for his driver’s license test, he finally went to the doctor. The diagnosis of multiple sclerosis and its rapid debilitating progress nearly robbed him of his will to live.
By 1960 few fragments of the picture remained. Harlan, now the father of two girls and one red-haired boy named John, couldn’t work anymore. He couldn’t show cattle. He couldn’t walk without assistance. He couldn’t drive, couldn’t write, couldn’t see well enough to read, couldn’t even tell if his bladder was full or empty. He was thirty-one years old.
By 1966 the last piece of the picture they thought would be their life together was snatched away. Harlan’s father, Cyril, died at age sixty-seven, his mind and body destroyed by diabetes.
Gone.
The whole picture was gone through no fault of their own. If any couple had a reason to be bitter, my parents did, especially my dad, one of the nicest guys you’d ever care to meet. This man did everything right…honored his parents, went to church every Sunday, played with his kids, worked hard, never said “Bah, humbug” at Christmas. Sure, he ate red meat, but he was a cattle farmer, and this was the 1950s. My mom was right up there with him in nice woman status…studied hard, was a dedicated school teacher, treated her in-laws like gold, rolled out pie crust at the county fair when she was nine months pregnant. Anybody who knew them would say, “They didn’t deserve this.”
So, did they become bitter? Did they tear up the wedding picture of the ignorant young couple so unaware of the pain awaiting them? I’m sure they wanted to, but they didn’t. Instead they looked at that wedding picture and noticed, hiding in the depths of my mother’s gaze and in the laugh lines on my father’s face, the beginnings of a second picture. This new picture was different from the one they had imagined, as tragic as the first one had been hopeful.
In my mother’s eyes glinted a determination to provide for her family, and inside her heart dwelt an extraordinary talent for teaching children, a potent combination that caused schools to snatch her up. In my father’s face were hidden laugh lines attached to invisible strings, pulling his face into a haunted grin, giving him an ability to face his family and the world with a smile, even when his mind was heavy with depression and loss. They stared at this new picture and saw themselves, not as innocent victims, but as confident victors. Over the years, they labored to piece together the new picture of their lives.
by jphilo | Sep 22, 2014 | Reflections on the Past
John, Jim, and Dad with the pipe that didn’t fall in the lake
The first half of Good Cheap Fun appeared on the Gravel Road way back in August. Today, you can finally read the second half of the excerpt from Lessons From My Father. As has been mentioned, this tale of vacation woe is packed with more catastrophe than a person can bear at one sitting. But if you want to risk it, Part 1 can be found here. And now, for the rest of the story…
At daybreak we slowly straggled into the kitchen, weary and welted, serious damage having been inflicted upon us during the night. Dad wheeled himself in. “Mornin’, everybody. Hope you all slept as well as I did. Wuddin’ it great to hear those cows mooin’ in the night?”
Despondent, nearly mutinous faces turned toward him.
Dorothy and Donna handed bowls around and placed boxes of cereal on the table. “What is that smell?” Mom asked, her eyes watering slightly. She sniffed me, then Julie, then Gail. “You all smell funny, like…”
“Like wet, ol’ mattresses full a dried pee,” Julie finished her sentence. “We’re real stinky.”
“Don’t worry,” Jim assured us. “We’ll be outside soon. There’s a real nice breeze. You can take soap and a washcloth into the lake when ya swim and get cleaned up. The good news is that the wind has skedaddled the mosquitoes, at least for now. Donna, where’s the key to the boathouse?” As Donna handed him the key, we slurped down our cereal, eager to witness the opening of the marine treasure trove.
We formed a merry caravan as we skipped our way across the yard. Dad, pushed by Jim, led the way, followed by six cavorting youngsters. The cavorting ended when John discovered the cattle had done more than just moo during the night. We picked our way daintily through their cunningly deposited land mines. Jim wheeled Dad to the shoreline near the boathouse, so he could supervise the water activities. Hastily, Jim braked the wheelchair while Dad pulled out his pipe and filled it. Dad was ready for the first smoke of the day, intent on enjoying the experience, enhanced as it was by the morning air, delicately laced with the aroma of fresh land mines.
Jim headed for the boathouse, key in hand. He inserted the lock and tried to turn it. Nothing happened. “Must be the wrong key,” he assured us. He headed back to the house to confer with Donna, but returned quickly. “It’s the right key. The lock must be a bit rusty. Why don’t you kids find a nice place to wade while I work on this a little?”
We wandered off. I spotted a particularly alluring bit of beach, overhung by leafy trees. The sun was getting hot, and the air was humid. I walked along the beach, heading for the shady spot. The sand turned to mud as I approached the shade. Enjoying the coolness, I waded back and forth, watching my feet stir up little muddy tornadoes under the water.
Eventually, the mosquitoes zeroed in on me, and I headed back up the beach where the others were waiting. I looked down and noticed blobs of mud clinging to my legs. I stepped in the water to wash them off, but they wouldn’t budge. I ran over to the others who were playing in the sand.
“Jill,” I said, “I can’t get this mud off my legs.” She bent down for a closer look.
“That’s not mud,” she informed me. “Those are leeches.” She reached down and took hold of one, pulling it out longer and longer, unable to break the powerful attachment between me and my blood-thirsty friend.
“EVERYBODY OUT’A THE WATER,” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. THIS LAKE IS FULL’A LEECHES! GET OUT, GET OUT!” Then I ran, flailing and screaming, toward the house. “HELP, MOM, HELP! I GOT LEECHES ALL OVER ME! I’M GONNA DIE!” Being a child of slightly dramatic nature, I may have overreacted just a bit.
Mom came to the door with the salt shaker in hand. She had seen African Queen, so she knew what to do. Aunt Donna, looking only slightly less green than I felt, made a beeline down to the lake.
“Everybody, out,” she ordered. “This lake is full of leeches. You won’t be able to swim after all.” Groans and even tears greeted her announcement, but she held firm. “We don’t have enough salt,” she explained. “But,” she tried to comfort everyone, “you can still go out in the boats.”
They ran to the boathouse to check on Jim’s progress. There wasn’t any.
“This lock is rusted solid,” he explained. Everyone bent close to look. “Never seen anything like it. Guess we won’t be going boating.”
A wail of disappointment erupted. The noise made Mom and me look up from my mosquito-welted, leech-infested, salt-encrusted, pee-stinky little body. A movement caught my eye, and I noticed that Dad seemed to be inching toward the water as he savored his pipe. He seemed oblivious of his progress. I thought it was one of his jokes. “Mom, look at Dad,” I giggled.
Mom took one look at Dad, his wheelchair gaining momentum. She dropped the salt shaker along with my leg and shouted with more lung power than I knew she possessed, “Jim, Harlan’s rolling into the lake!”
Jim jumped up, hurdled over the children around him, and sprinted towards the rolling chair. He grabbed hold of the wheelchair just as the top of Dad’s boots were swallowed by the lake, and his knees stared the same wet demise right in the eye. Jim yanked him back to safety. Dad’s pipe, jerked from his hand by the force of backward motion, formed a perfect arc as it sailed out of his hand, and splashed into the lake.
“Dorothy,” he said, his humor seeping away as the specter of nicotine withdrawal approached, “I didn’t bring another pipe. Whaddya say we give it up’n go home?” Water dripped from his pant legs and boots.
I kept my hand on the salt shaker, my eyes alert for any sign of leeches beneath his socks.
“Yeah, let’s go home,” Jill chimed in. “We can’t get to the boats, and cuz of Jolene, we can’t go swimmin’.”
“Look at the sky, Jim,” Donna pointed out. “It looks like it could storm.” Sure enough, clouds were building up in the southwest sky. “We don’t even have a radio to check the weather, and this cabin doesn’t have a basement.”
Danelle, John’s age-mate and usually the heartiest and most countrified of our young crew, trudged towards us from the outhouse and solemnly announced, “I used up the last black and white page. The rest of you are gonna hafta to use color.”
We started packing.
As we lurched our way down the rutted lane, the wind rose and the clouds grew darker, forcing us to close the car windows. The humidity increased inside, enhancing the pungent odor emanating from our unwashed bodies. Jill actually enjoyed her little trysts with the cattle gates, as each encounter allowed her to breath untainted air. When we reached the gravel road, the adults stopped the cars and emerged gasping for fresh air. After a quick pow wow, they decided that rather than head all the way to Le Mars, they would drive to Pipestone, where we could be hosed down before spending the night with Grandma and Grandpa Hess. Taking a few last, deep breaths, they entered into the vehicles and drove at a rate I am guessing was more than a little above the speed limit.
We got to Pipestone in record time. Grandma was surprised to see us and after one whiff sent the children off in sets of three to the bathtub. “Use lots of soap and wash your hair,” she advised. She didn’t need to remind us to wipe with toilet paper and flush the stool when we were done. The pleasure was all ours. While we gloried in modern plumbing, the adults hung the sleeping bags on the line to air.
We emerged from the bathtub, clean and shining, wet-haired, and clothed in pajamas from Grandma’s famous pajama drawer, our own sleepwear enjoying a quick spin in the washing machine. After a blessedly mosquito-free supper, we discovered we were exhausted, with lack of sleep and disappointment bearing down upon our eyelids. Grandma made up beds for us on the furniture and on the floor and in the basement. We children hit the hay immediately, listening to the talk and the laughter drifting in from the breezeway as the adults recounted the events of the day.
Just as sleep claimed me, the phone rang. Hands shook me awake and urgent voices ordered me to hurry to the basement. “Tornado,” I heard someone say. I grabbed my pillow and blanket and headed for the basement, following the rest of the children. The adults came behind us, Jim and Mom bringing up the rear, as they took what seemed like an eternity to maneuver Dad and his wheelchair down the narrow stairs. Grandpa switched on the radio, and we listened to its nearly unintelligible crackle as we sat on the basement floor.
Dad surveyed the room, his eyes bright and his grin wide, if a bit forced, due to lack of nicotine. “Boy, I’m sure glad this vacation was free,” he said. “I’d hate to pay good money for a weekend like this.”
“Now, Harlan,” Mom begged, her eyes wet. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start…what?” he demanded. Mom jerked a slight nod in the direction of Aunt Donna, who was blinking back tears.
“This weekend was supposed to be so fun,” Donna’s voice quavered. “Instead, it was a disaster.”
“At least we got out of the cabin before the tornado,” Jim comforted her. “We’re all safe and sound. And Harlan’s right, at least it was free.”
Dad cleared his throat and spoke again. “Well, not quite. Somebody owes me a pipe.”
We all began to laugh.
To this day, the Hoeys and the Strattons love to get together whenever we can, though we’ve learned to pay as we go. We’ve endured many adventures, but no other trip was as disaster-laden as our free weekend. That trip has become the measuring stick, the lodestone, the gauge to which all other disasters are compared. The truth of the matter is, while no other trip has been nearly so bad, no other trip ever provided as much laughter either. Dad did lose his pipe, but he gained a story that could make him laugh till he cried each time he told it.
“I sure hope,” he would end the story, “I sure hope there’s some dumb fish in that lake enjoyin’ a real good smoke.”
by jphilo | Aug 11, 2014 | Reflections on the Past
There’s just enough summer left for one more Lessons from my Father vacation story. This tale of vacation woe is packed with more catastrophe than a person can bear at one sitting. So this post contains the first half of the tale. Come back in about a month for the rest of the story.
Good, Cheap Fun
For indeed when we were with you,
we kept telling you in advance that we were going to suffer affliction;
and so it came to pass, as you know.
I Thessalonians 3: 4
“Head ‘em up, move ‘em out,” Uncle Jim crowed the words as the Stratton/Hoey party of ten crowded into two vehicles, ready to hit the road again. We were anticipating a weekend of pure enjoyment, two days of carefree existence, forty-eight hours of good, cheap fun. In fact, this adventure was cheaper than cheap. It was free.
An older couple in our church had told Aunt Donna about their lakeside cabin north of Willmar, Minnesota. They told her our families could use the cabin any weekend in the summer when they were not there.
“Dorothy, it’s free.” I could hear Donna’s excited voice in the kitchen. “Free! It’s a two-story cabin by a lake, with a private dock, and a boathouse stocked and ready for our use.”
“Donna, it sounds too good to be true. They don’t want us to pay anything?” Mom, a wise skeptic, knew there was no such thing as a free lunch.
“That’s what she said, Dorothy, absolutely free. They love to loan out their cabin to young families. Why they even gave me a guide book they’ve written up, pointing out sites of interest on the drive up.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I’m sure. Grab your calendar. ”
Our weekend was scheduled and off we went, four adults and six active children ranging in age from three to twelve. We were ready for easy livin’, ready to catch our dinner in the well-stocked Lobster Lake, ready to dip those Minnesota walleye and northern pike in egg, roll ‘em in the cornmeal we’d brought along, ready to fry ‘em in the bacon grease stowed in the cooler which was packed in the trunk alongside our fishin’ gear, our swimming suits, and the picnic baskets. This weekend would be the stuff of memory, of legend, and it was free.
Jim drove the vehicle ahead of us while Dad kept him entertained. Neither made any effort to corral the three feisty children in the backseat. My mother drove our tan Plymouth at a safe distance behind the men’s car, my two traveling companions prospering under my loving and bossy care.
Eagerly, Donna read excerpts from the handwritten guide book while Dorothy steered us down the road. “As you travel north of La Verne, Minnesota, on Highway 75, keep looking west. You will see the Blue Mound Inn, a restaurant just recently established and quickly gaining a reputation as one of the area’s finest eateries.”
I swallowed my saliva as I looked out the window. Our car zoomed by the establishment; my hopes of a chance to sample the cuisine predictably dashed.
Anticipation of free lodging and food propelled our parents down the road that hot June day, and the detailed directions in the guide book led us from the state highway to a black-topped county road to a gravel road to a rusty mailbox guarding an overgrown and winding lane. The lane, rutted and narrow, led to a mangy grove, in the middle of which stood a derelict frame farmhouse, which at one time might have been painted white.
“According to the guide book, this has to be the lane. You will find a few cattle gates along the lane. Please shut the gates after you go through,” Donna read from the guide book again. “There’s a cattle gate, that’s for sure.” She peered down the dusky lane. “I guess the cabin must be between the old farmhouse and the lake.”
Both vehicles stopped, balking at the prospect of navigating the lane, which was doing a pretty good imitation of a miniature Grand Canyon. Donna hopped out to confer with Uncle Jim. He agreed, as Dad nodded approval, that indeed, the cabin must be on the far side of the old farmhouse. They assigned Jill, as oldest child, the honor of opening and shutting each gate along the way.
Donna got back into the Plymouth, and Dorothy and Jim drove carefully, avoiding the precarious ruts in the lane. Numerous halts, due to the countless gates, slowed our progress and left Jill cursing her dumb luck as oldest of our young generation. As our cars rounded the farmhouse, we were rewarded with a breath-taking view of the lake. We spied a boathouse and a fragile-looking dock, but the two-story cabin of our imaginations escaped detection. The farmhouse, however, did have two stories, the higher of the two listing a good six inches closer to the lake than did the lower one.
“You don’t suppose…” Mom’s unwelcome thought trailed off.
“No, this couldn’t be it.” Donna finished the thought. “We must have made a wrong turn. I’ll just go try the key before we head down that lane again.”
Donna marched to the screen door and yanked. It wouldn’t budge. She peered closer and spied a hook latching the door securely from the inside. A key was of little use here. Donna executed a neat about face and headed back to explain the situation.
“Lemme take a look,” Jim suggested. He went to the door and rattled the knob. It held firm. He examined the window near the door and worked a small section of its rusty screen loose. He managed to open the splintery window sash, but there was no way his body would fit through the small hole he had created. “Donna, send Julie-bug up here. She’s small enough to crawl through, I think.”
Julie, nearly overcome by the importance of her assignment, straightened her young shoulders, and walked solemnly to fulfill it. Uncle Jim lifted her and squeezed her through the opening, pulling back on the screen as she squirmed her way in. Julie opened the kitchen door and then unhooked the screen, emerging from within victorious. Donna put the key in the lock, sure it wouldn’t fit. Unfortunately, it did. The summer cabin of our dreams suddenly became a nightmare.
Donna walked through the door and, to her credit, did not faint as she surveyed the amenities of our free digs. My mother clung to consciousness also, which was good, as she was still at the wheel, parking the car in the least overgrown patch of lawn she could find. Uncle Jim managed a weak grin as he ran back to his car and pulled it in place beside her. Dad, taken aback by his first view of our palatial accommodations, began laughing so hard he couldn’t gasp out a snappy comment. We young ones, having waited patiently for at least five miles of the approximately 175 mile trip, could be patient no longer. We poured out of the car, falling over one another in our haste, ready to race to the lake.
“You kids be careful,” Mom yelled as she got out of the car. “Come back here for a minute.” Normally, we would have ignored her instructions and headed straight for the water, but the overgrown lawn impeded our progress, and the squadron of Kamikaze mosquitoes guarding the lake drove us back.
“Head for the house,” Jim barked the order, and we obeyed. We flew into the house and slammed the door, slapping at the enemy pilots invading the kitchen.
“I gotta go…bad!” John spit out a few mosquitoes as he spoke. He headed through the house on a whirlwind mission to locate the facilities. Seconds later, he returned to the kitchen with a puzzled and desperate look on his face. “I can’t find the bathroom.”
As he spoke, the door opened. Uncle Jim wheeled Dad in. A formation of fighter mosquitoes accompanied them. “Johny, the bathroom is outside. I spied the outhouse in the grove,” Dad said.
“An outhouse!” Mom exclaimed. “Donna, did you pack toilet paper?”
“No,” Donna’s voice wavered.
“Neither did I.”
As John danced painfully, Jim looked him in the eye. “John, be a man and be the first to test the facilities. Just pray for a Sears catalog. And don’t dawdle. The skeeters will carry you off if you aren’t careful.”
John pushed his way through the door and soldiered bravely through the yard to the outhouse leaning precariously in a shadowy corner of the grove. An honor guard of mosquitoes escorted him to his appointed task.
While John inspected the outbuildings, we girls completed a reconnaissance mission through the interior of the estate. We found a living room and dining room off the kitchen as well as one bedroom on the first floor. The bedroom held an iron bedstead, a greyish water-stained mattress stunningly setting off the set of rusty springs upon which it laid.
We tore up the stairs, oblivious of the wallpaper peeling off the ceilings and walls, dangling just above our little heads. We found three more bedrooms, the decorating motif of each strikingly similar to that of the main floor bedroom, although some mattresses were a tri-colored mix of grey water stains tastefully swirled among yellow urine patches and streaks of dried brown blood. Astute observers that we were, we noticed the musty odor pervading each room, amplified by the stifling temperature on the second floor. We paired up and wrestled open the warped sashes of the double-hung windows in each room, letting the cool, grass-scented evening air rush in. Then we headed down to the kitchen to report what we had discovered.
“Girls, that’s great,” Aunt Donna complimented us. “We’ll bring suitcases and sleeping bags in right after supper. Why don’t you all set the table while Dorothy and I mix up the tuna salad for sandwiches. One of you, grab the fly swatter and keep at the mosquitoes.”
With our expert help, supper was ready in a flash, and we all gathered hungrily at the kitchen table. After a remarkably short grace, punctuated by hands slapping at the dive bombers buzzing around us, we dug in.
“These bugs are getting worse,” exclaimed Donna. “Is the door shut all the way?”
“It sure is.” Jim got up to double check.
“Where in the world are they coming from?” Mom wondered. “Girls, was there a hole in one of the bedroom screens?”
“Nope,” Jill was positive.
“Are you sure, Jill?”
“‘Course I’m sure. I’m no baby.” She was indignant.
“How can you be so sure?” Dad took over the questioning.
Jill sat up very straight, swallowed one last mouthful of sandwich, slapped at the insect imbibing her life blood, then paused for dramatic effect. “I’m sure,” she intoned with great dignity, “cuz there were no screens.”
“No screens,” Mom echoed. She rushed out of the room and up the stairs, followed by Jim and Donna. Above us we heard window sashes banging down. Dad sat in his chair, trying to chew and laugh without spewing masticated tuna fish all over the table. He picked up his napkin and wiped the tears from his eyes.
The other adults returned to the room, clouds of buzzing biters creating an interesting halo effect around their heads.
“That takes care a that.” Jim broke the next bit of news gently. “Kids, the mosquitoes are just too thick out there tonight. We’ll have to hold off on swimmin’ ‘til tomorrow.”
We pleaded with him to no avail. The enemy agents circled outside the walls, and we were condemned to an evening inside our free summer cabin.
Putting a good face on it, Jim reasoned with us. “We’ll go to bed early, get up at the crack of dawn, and be in the boats all mornin’. Now, who’s gonna brave the outdoors and help me bring in the suitcases?” Outnumbered by merciless, winged warriors, we valiantly managed to unpack the cars in record time.
Sleep eluded us that night, trapped, as we were, in a war zone. Enemy agents conducted relentless attacks, engines buzzing overhead unceasingly. At some point in the night, cattle wandered into the yard. Their moos serenaded us, mingling with the aerial drills above us, driving away any hope of sleep. The upstairs bedrooms, with windows tightly shut, retained heat remarkably well. The hordes of fighter jets stirred the stuffy air not at all. We faced a conundrum. Should we throw off the heavy sleeping bags and leave ourselves vulnerable to enemy attack or burrow into the bags and die of overheating? Anxiously, we awaited the crack of dawn.
If you liked what you read, come back on September 15 for Part 2 of Good, Cheap Fun.
by jphilo | Jul 28, 2014 | Reflections on the Past
It’s summer, and for anglers that means it’s always time for fishing. My mother loved to fish, and her love of the sport took root in two of her three children. When you read this story about one of our family’s fishing excursions, you’ll wonder what possessed my sibs to touch a fishing pole again.
Gone Fishin’
When, therefore, Peter heard that it was the Lord,
he put his outer garments on, for he was stripped for working,
and threw himself into the sea.
John 21:7
“Careful, Jolene,” Mom warned as I crammed my bamboo fishing pole into the trunk. “Lay it in gently, or it will break.” I shoved it in harder, secretly hoping this bane of my existence would snap in two, so I could avoid the bullhead encounter I knew loomed dead ahead. “Jolene!” Mom grabbed the pole out of my hand and shooed me away. “I told you to be careful. Why don’t you get in the car and wait there?”
A golden opportunity to shape my own destiny was snatched out of my hands. I slumped my shoulders and dragged my saddle-shoe shod feet towards the crowded back seat.
“Come sit by me, Jolene,” cajoled Grandpa Stratton, patting the spot next to him. I climbed in and snuggled up to my grandpa, who had just enough room in his life for three grandchildren. With John on his lap and Jill and me on either side of him, we covered him with our wriggling devotion, knowing that he would divide his attention and the nickels in his pocket equally amongst us.
“Send Johnny up to the front, Dad. With four of you in the back seat, you’ll get mighty hot and crowded. It’s a good hour to Storm Lake, you know.” Dad reached up and cushioned John’s descent after Grandpa hoisted him over the seat back. “Turn around and sit down, John,” Dad ordered.
John delayed just a moment, crouching on the seat ahead of us, letting his ornery eyes peek over the car’s bench seat. He raised himself so his whole smirking face was revealed, baiting his practically perfect sisters. “I got gum,” he gurgled.
Jill and I refused to bite or chew upon this injustice, for sitting in the coveted positions next to Grandpa all the way to Storm Lake more than cancelled out the lure of a measly stick of gum. John sneakily bobbed his entire chest above the seat, exposing not one measly stick, but an entire package of Wrigley’s gum poking out of his front shirt pocket.
“Where’d ya get that?” I sputtered.
“Johnny, turn around and sit down.” Mom reiterated Dad’s order as she slid into place behind the wheel of the car. He flipped around and flopped down on the seat, in the process casting a triumphant look of glee at our incredulous, gapingly gumless mouths. We cuddled closer to Grandpa in a vain attempt of tit for tat, but it was too late. John was facing the front window, well aware that he had won the first round of the angler’s derby, dishing out to his sisters a particularly repugnant fish gumbo surprise.
The adults, unaware of the competitive undercurrents pulling their small fry to and fro, discussed the plans for the day. “Once we get to Storm Lake, the kids and I will get out our fishing poles and head for the dock. Harlan, you and Grandpa Stratton can sit in the car and visit or get out and sit on the shore.”
Grandpa lit Dad’s pipe and then his own Camel cigarette while Mom issued captain’s orders. “We’ll fish for awhile and then stop and eat the lunch I packed. I can hardly wait to try out my new rod and reel.” Mom’s excitement reminded us of how much she liked to fish, a pastime for which none of the rest of us had yet developed a similar passion.
“How come we kids don’t get a rod and reel? How come we gotta have bamboo ones?” Jill demanded. She was in her “everything should be perfectly fair” phase, a position I covertly admired, though I lacked her gumption in voicing such a potentially volatile manifesto.
“A rod and reel is for a grown up, Jill. Your bamboo poles are just fine while you learn how to fish.”
I knew what that meant. “A rod and reel was too expensive” is what that really meant. Lots of things were too expensive at our house, most notably, I fumed, whole packages of Wrigley’s gum. Jealousy, that green worm, writhed beneath the surface of my emotions, proximity to Grandpa unable to suffocate its parasitic presence.
“How’d,” I wondered, “how’d my brother get a whole pack a gum?” This day was going from bad to worse, so far as I was concerned. John had all the gum, Jill had Grandpa’s arm around her while the one at my side maneuvered his cigarette back and forth. All I had for consolation was the prospect of a hot afternoon spent spearing worm halves on a hook and drowning them in clear, cool water. The closer we drew to our destination, the deeper I wallowed in my misery. At the same time I could see anticipation rising in my mother as she sped towards an afternoon of fishing, indulging in a relaxation that seldom fit into her duty-filled days.
“Here we are,” she trilled as we pulled into the graveled parking lot next to the public dock. “Hmm, there’s not much shade,” she noticed and turned toward Dad and Grandpa. “I hope you don’t get too hot.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Dad assured her. He loved to bake in the heat, for he often complained that the numbness in his limbs made them, especially his legs, feel cold. “Maybe I’ll finally warm up.”
Mom didn’t hear a word he said, so intent was she on unpacking the trunk. She pulled out the poles and carefully leaned them against the side of the car. Then, she heaved the collapsed wheelchair out of the trunk, unfolded it, and set it out upon the gravel.
“Harlan, have Cyril push the chair up to the side of the car if you want to get out for awhile, but for Pete’s sake, don’t get too close to the water,” she warned him. She turned back to the trunk, searching for the fish bucket and the can of worms hiding behind the box containing our lunch.
Taking advantage of her unusually distracted state, the three of us oozed out of the car and inched towards the water, its cool wet promise drawing us to its inviting depths. “You kids stay out of the water!” Mom hollered, her head hidden in the trunk. “I told you no swimming or wading today, just fishing.”
“Mom,” we whined in hot protest, “we’re burnin’ up. We’re dyin’!”
“Do not go in the water.” She drowned our protests in a sea of commands. “Come get your poles. Jill, carry the fish bucket, and Jolene, you carry the can of worms.”
“Ewwww, I hate worms,” I squealed. “They make me barf.”
“Fine, John, carry the worms.”
Shooting a disdainful, manly glance my way, he picked up the can and strode down the dock, following Jill. The top of the entire package of gum waving from the pocket of the shirt which covered his puffed up little chest taunted me.
“Enjoy yourselves,” she sang out to the men in the car, swinging into line along the pier.
I lifted my pole and shuffled along, making steady if unenthusiastic progress until I managed to wrap my ankle in the fish line, nearly impaling my digits upon the fish hook in a vain attempt to untangle the situation. Coordination was never my strong suit. Knocking myself off balance as I swerved to save Thumbkin, I screamed, “Mom, HELP!” teetering precariously near the dock’s edge.
Mom turned and sprang into action. She dropped her rod and reel and sped towards me, pulling me to the middle of what I now considered the dangerously narrow dock. “Jolene, how did you do this?” She sat me down on the wooden slats and unwound the line from my ankle.
“I da’ know,” I sniveled. “Mom, will ya put the worm on my hook?”
Sensing another catastrophe in the making unless she agreed, she answered, “Yes, I’ll bait your hook.”
“Will ya take the bullheads off, too?” I pressed my advantage, for the nasty stingers behind their evil gills filled my cowardly heart and dainty fingers with dread.
“Yes,” she sighed, slight frustration tinging her voice.
I jumped up and bragged mightily as I headed to my fellow spawn, “Mom’s gonna’ bait my hook and take off the bullheads for me.” Round two of the fishing derby had ended in my favor.
“No fair,” they protested. “Mom!”
“Okay, Okay.” She swam into the fray. “I’ll help you all. Hold out your poles.” Patiently she baited our hooks and helped us cast our lines into the glassy water. She told us to watch the red and white bobber on the surface. “If it moves, you’ve got a bite.”
We sat on the dock, our feet dangling over the edge, tantalizingly close to the lake’s cool wetness. She baited her own hook, cast with expert precision and settled herself on the dock. Her shoulders relaxed and her eyes closed for a moment as she savored this bit of peace.
“Jolene, look.” Jill pointed at my bobber. “You gotta bite.”
“Mom, Mom, I gotta bite.” Never a rock in times of crisis, I nearly dropped the pole.
Her eyes popped open. “Hang on and pull it in.”
“What? How?” Overwhelmed by responsibility, my hands trembled and my muscles turned to mush. “Help!” I wailed.
“Good grief, Jolene, do you have to make everything into such a production?” Her firm hands covered mine, and with a mighty yank she lifted pole, line, and daughter skyward. A bullhead dangled at the end of the line, while a youngster hung suspended upon a length of bending bamboo.
“Help!” I bellowed.
“Sit down and shut up,” Mom commanded, and I did, at least until the bullhead flopped beside me on the dock.
“I’m not takin’ that off the hook. It’ll sting me.” Hysteria ratcheted my voice up a few notches from its already considerable volume. “Get it away from me, quick!” My arms and legs flailed as I inched away from the scaly monster.
“Jolene, shut up.” Jill put her head close to mine. “Everyone on this entire lake is lookin’ at you. You’re so embarrassing.”
I looked around and discovered that, indeed, my performance was gathering a nice little audience. The men in the rowboat were laughing heartily, and the fisherman on the shore to the right of the dock was shaking his head. My father and grandpa had left the car and were nearing the water’s edge, curious about the cause of the commotion.
“Look, Mom.” I pointed towards them, pleased that my antics were drawing such a crowd. “Dad and Grandpa are gettin’ in the water.”
Her rod and reel clattered to the dock again, and she sprinted toward the men. “That woman can run,” I marveled.
“Harlan, put on your brakes! You’re rolling towards the water!”
Harlan looked up, and then down, in surprise, and seeing that his wife was correct, braked just in time to avoid baptism by immersion.
“Cyril!” she cried as Grandpa stumbled over a piece of gravel in his attempt to catch the wheelchair. “Watch out!”
He reached forward and caught hold of Dad’s wheelchair just before his own unintentional proclamation of faith was accomplished.
“What are you two doing down here so close to the lake?” she scolded. “Would you please go back to the car, so I don’t have to worry about you two and the kids?” she begged.
“Dorothy, it’s gettin’ hot in the car,” Dad protested.
“Leave all the doors open,” she snapped.
“Let’s go back to the car,” Grandpa advised catching sight of the wild look in his daughter-in-law’s eye.
“My gum!” A shout from the dock wafted to the shore. “My gum fell in the lake!” John wailed and gnashed his teeth.
Jill and I stood frozen, watching the entire pack of gum float upon the surface of the water. Then we sprang into action flopping on our stomachs and reaching for the sweet, minty treasure, determined to rescue the five sticks of pleasure from a soggy fate.
John saw immediately that our arms were too short, took a deep breath, and bellowed, “My gum!!!!”
We grabbed our poles and tried to guide the waterlogged package closer, but to no avail.
A man of action if not forethought, John took the only step possible, one long step off a short plank, and splashed into the water.
“John, you can’t swim!” Jill informed him at the top of her lungs.
“My gum,” he burbled. His logic seemed impeccable to me. The gum was definitely worth the risk.
“Girls, get out of the way.” Mom barreled down the dock, her short legs moving faster than I thought possible. We got out of the way. She lay down on her stomach, inching as far out on the dock as she could safely extend, stretching out her arm. “John, grab my arm.”
“MY GUM!!”
“I’ll give you another piece of gum,” she promised. His arm swung toward her hand, and she strained forward, grabbing his wet hand, pulling him to her. She grabbed his collar, and by some reservoir of brute strength deep within herself, hauled him onto the dock. She sat a few moments, her chest heaving, her eyes closed, John dripping all over her lap.
After a moment, she collected herself and stood, steadying John on his watery feet. She looked at Jill and me. “Girls, pick up the poles. We’re going home.” Her shoulders sagged as she stooped down and picked up the fishing bucket, placing the full can of worms in its empty depths. She had lost round three of the fishing derby, but nobody had won.
She walked towards the shore, and we tagged along behind her, John, then Jill, then me.
“Mom,” John piped up, “when am I gettin’ my gum? You promised.”
We never went fishing again.
by jphilo | Jul 11, 2014 | Reflections on the Past
Summer is vacation time for many families. Today’s excerpt from Lessons from my Father describes summer travel trips, which our family took, due in large part to the kindness of my mother’s sister, Donna, and her husband Jim.
Lifesavers
This is true and undefiled religion
in the sight of our God and Father,
to visit widows and orphans in their distress…
James 1: 27a
The blue station wagon was full to bursting as it sped south down Highway 75. Jim, my high school social studies teacher-uncle, was at the wheel. He was so dark-haired and tanned that Mom’s crazy Uncle Bob swore Jim was Japanese. “He’s dark, he’s short, last name like Hoey…gotta be a Jap,” Bob growled every time he saw my handsome uncle.
My father, urinal at his feet, arm resting out the open window, provided a steady stream of small talk, guaranteed to keep Uncle Jim alert and entertained. Cousin Julie, age three, sat between them, her eyes on the road ahead of her in a valiant effort to keep her car sickness under control.
Mom sat in the back seat with her younger sister and Uncle Jim’s wife, my aunt Donna. Donna’s hair was black to Mom’s brown, her eyes brown to Mom’s blue, and she was a good four inches taller than her vertically challenged sister. For all that, you could tell they were sisters and elementary teachers to boot as they masterfully kept in line the crowd of children in the cargo bay behind them.
Crowded in the bay, along with luggage for ten people and the paper grocery sacks and cooler full of food for our traveling meals, were any combination of the four other children: Jill (11), Jolene (8), John (5), Danelle (5), and Gail (4). One of the children, whichever one had most recently been caught misbehaving, sat, bored and restless, between the two terrible sisters, while the other offspring cavorted noisily.
Jill, conscious of the elevated rank her advanced age provided, held court among us. She explained to us the mysteries of childhood, including why Aunt Donna insisted we line the toilet seats in the filling station bathrooms with toilet paper before sitting. “You can get diseases otherwise.” Too frightened to ask what those diseases might be or how toilet paper might fend them off, we kept Mr. Whipple in business for years. When Jill’s wisdom ran dry, Danelle, oldest of the Hoey brood, showed us how we could rearrange the luggage on the return trip so there would be room for the dog, the two cats, three lizards, and the live clam collection she knew her parents would allow her to take home.
We entertained one another for hours, telling Gail of the three-horned-cows we saw out our side of the car. She would scramble over to look, and we would hide her coloring book. Once she found it and settled down, we commented on the grasshoppers so big and fast they were passing the station wagon. She’d take a look and discover her coloring book gone missing again. We babied little Julie, dragging her back with us when her car sickness subsided and dumping her into the front seat when she looked green around the gills.
“I’m hungry,” I intoned as I struck my most dramatic starvation pose. “When do we eat?”
“Anybody else hungry?” Mom asked.
“I am.”
“I’m starving.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Jim, the kids are hungry. Isn’t there a roadside park coming up soon?” Donna added, “I think it has a bathroom, too.”
“I see a McDonald’s.” Danelle, the eternal optimist, made a gallant attempt at picnic insurrection. “We could eat there.”
“Too expensive,” Donna and Dorothy chimed in unison, another facet of their family resemblance surfacing.
“We’ll stop at the park and eat.” Jim squashed the insurrection with the turn of the steering wheel. “What kind of sandwiches, Donna?”
“Bologna on white bread with mayonnaise and butter. Plus, we have bananas, potato chips, water, and cookies.”
“My favorites,” Dad licked his lips.
We arrived at the park and checked out the playground equipment while the grownups set out the picnic. We swarmed around the food like bees to honey. “Wait a second,” Jim commanded as our hands reached for the white bread and bologna. “Harlan, would you say grace?”
“Certainly,” Dad assented.
We hunkered down for a long wait.
“Would you all please bow your heads and fold your hands?” Dad waited until we were properly positioned. “Our gracious Lord and blessed heavenly Father, we thank you today for the food set before us by the loving hands that prepared it. We thank you, too, for this opportunity for fellowship together.”
I opened an eye to see if Dad was winding down. When I saw him take another deep breath, I bowed my head, sighed, and squeezed my eyes shut.
He was just getting warmed up. “Thank you, also, for the bountiful precipitation you provided in northwest Iowa in the form of one point five inches of gentle, soaking rain last night. We pray that you extend such a blessing to all the farmers, that they can enjoy a bumper crop in the upcoming harvest season.”
I yawned loudly.
Dad ignored the hint. “We ask, too, that you continue the weather pattern of hot daytime temperatures, warm evenings, and high humidity so conducive to proper crop development at this crucial time in the lives of those who work the soil.”
I peeked again in time to see Gail faint from hunger as Mom elbowed Dad’s arm. This time, he got the hint and hastily concluded, “In the name of Jesus Christ, Your Son. Amen.”
We dove for the Wonderbread. In less time than it took to bless the food, we inhaled our meal and headed off to the swings, leaving the adults in our wake to enjoy a more leisurely repast. Twenty minutes later, our parents squeezed us back into the vehicle, shut the doors, and we headed down the open road.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” Gail announced two miles later.
“We were just at the park. Why didn’t you use the bathroom there?” an exasperated Donna asked.
“It wasn’t a bathroom. It was an outhouse…gross. And it didn’t have any toilet paper.”
Gail summed it up pretty neatly, I thought.
“Jim, Gail has to go to the bathroom.”
“So do I.”
“So do I.”
“Me, too.”
“Just a few more miles to the next town,” Mom assured us. Five towns later, after innumerable pleas and dire warnings of imminent bodily function catastrophes, Jim put on the brakes and headed for the blessed Texaco star.
Filling station attendants from Iowa to Kansas stared open mouthed, too amazed to complete the back flips their TV commercials promised, whenever Jim pulled up to the pump. He parked the car, and the doors opened to pour out upon the pavement an endless stream of youngsters.
“Stop, hold on!” Dad bellowed in a voice sure to be heard all the way to Kansas and over the rainbow. “One of you kids come back and get this.” He held up the black leather bag which held his urinal. “Take what’s inside and rinse it out good,” he said with a wink, the very soul of discretion. While the rest of the family visited the facilities, he turned his attention to the attendant, who was staring in a state of shock at the trail of children heading to the bathrooms, and continued with him the conversation Jim’s call of nature had interrupted.
As the tank filled, the attendant proceeded to wash every window in the low riding station wagon. As he worked his way to the back of the vehicle, he came face to face with another nasty shock. Tied to the top of the car was Dad’s wheelchair, wheels spinning in the wind.
“That’s mine,” Dad explained.
“Don’t say,” muttered the attendant.
“Couldn’t fit it in the back,” Dad went on. “Too many kids.”
“I’ll say,” the attendant agreed. “Looks pretty crowded in there. Where ya headed?”
“Dearing, Kansas. That’s where my brother-in-law is from. Going to visit his folks, see the country.”
“Don’t say,” marveled the attendant. “Have a good trip.” At that point, the sparkling conversation ended and a horde of children ran back to the car.
“Mom, I wanna sit in front!” John hollered, his volume nearly matching his father’s. “I’m tired of all them girls.”
“‘Sright, John. Get up front here with the men,” Uncle Jim agreed, his Kansas twang growing stronger as we neared his home state. “Julie can sit in the back seat as long as there’s a bread sack handy.”
John grinned, glowing with pleasure as he joined the men.
The girl children piled into the back seat and scrambled into the cargo bay. Donna, Mom, and Julie took up residence in the back seat, and we took off, the wheels of the chair on top of the car gaining speed as Jim’s foot pressed the accelerator. The man with the Texaco star stared at us, mouth slightly ajar, as we aimed for the highway. He looked like he didn’t know what had hit him. The Stratton/Hoey gang had that effect on people, all the way to Kansas.
The Stratton/Hoey gang had that effect whenever they traveled together, and they traveled together plenty, as long as Dad was able to go along….Ponca, Nebraska; Springfield, Illinois; Pipestone, Minnesota; Sioux Falls, South Dakota; Grand Rapids, Minnesota….why travel alone when it was cheaper by the dozen? Our numbers approached that dozen marker, when eight years after Julie, the Hoeys produced their youngest, a son named Dan, and eased John’s burden of being the token male cousin.
Jim must have known that his presence allowed Dad to visit places beyond his limited horizons. He listened to Dad’s innumerable stories. He hoisted Dad’s wheelchair to the top of the station wagon, tied it in place, and reversed the process as needed without complaint. He gently lifted Dad from car to wheelchair to toilet seat to wheelchair to car. He pushed the wheelchair up paths that even Mom could not negotiate, holding open a few years longer the doors that were closing around my father’s life.
Donna must have wished to spend that time with her own family instead of surrounded by three extra children who bossed her young brood mercilessly. She must have wanted an evening alone with her husband, an event that wasn’t going to happen with her nieces and nephew hanging upon the man they hero-worshiped. I never heard such a sentiment pass her lips.
Our last adventure together occurred in the mid-seventies. My sister had married and she and her husband had moved north of Grand Rapids, Minnesota, where they were managing Camp Layal, a Baptist church camp. If we could make the six-hour trip early in June before the camping season started, Jill told us, we could stay in the lodge, hike the woods, take evening rides on the pontoon boat, and canoe on the lake…all for free. It was an offer our penny-pinching gang could not pass up.
The blue station wagon was but a memory by this Time. Uncle Jim now sported a pickup truck with a topper. A mattress lined the floor of the truck, the end closest to the cab propped up with luggage and pillows. Into that makeshift bed we hoisted Dad, now much too weak to make a six hour trip sitting upright in a car. Three people sat in the cab, and we all took shifts sitting with Dad in the back of the truck. The balance of the gang followed the Hoey vehicle in the Stratton car. Our traveling methods had changed somewhat. Bathroom breaks weren’t as frequent or as urgent as during our younger traveling days. The 1974 oil embargo ushered in the age of self-serve gas, so filling station attendants were spared the vision of Dad’s prone body in the pickup. The one thing that hadn’t changed was the cooler full of cheap food. We devoured the sandwiches, fruit, and cookies at a roadside park along the way.
After a six-hour trip, we arrived at my sister and her husband’s trailer without incident. Mom and Dad stayed with them, but the rest of us slept in the camp lodge, invading the little trailer only at meal time. We had a wonderful time and so did the mosquitoes who feasted on a fresh infusion of sweet Iowa blood. Most of us, who had traveled before as children, were adults now or well into adolescence. Dan, the youngest among us, was about five, and having the time of his life running through the woods and paddling the canoes.
We were eating our meal together with the older generation seated around the table in the tiny kitchen, the rest of us spilling into the living room. Suddenly, from the kitchen, we heard Mom say, “Harlan, are you all right? Harlan, what is it?”
We all stood up and watched over the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.
“Harlan, are you choking?” Mom asked.
Face red, nose running, he nodded. Mom and Jim pounded on his back to no avail. He began to turn blue. Jill tried to position herself behind the wheelchair to do the Heimlich maneuver, but the chair handles were in the way.
“Let’s get him out of the chair and on the floor,” Jim ordered. Mom and Jim reached around Dad and eased him to the floor, laying him on his side. Jill lay down behind him, her stomach to Dad’s back. Mom and Jim lifted Dad’s torso, and Jill slipped an arm beneath him.
The rest of us were frozen there, watching the scene on the floor. We were weak in our fear, praying that Jill could open the door closing on Dad’s life. Wrapping him in a bear hug, Jill squeezed Dad’s abdomen once, then twice, again and again, again, again, again. Jim and Mom held up the dead weight of his torso between them, allowing Jill room to maneuver.
Finally, we heard Dad begin to cough, and he sucked in a great wheezy lungful of air.Jill and Mom sat limply on the linoleum. The rest of us began breathing again, so mesmerized by the scene before us, we didn’t notice Dan’s big eyes taking in the frightening scene.
“You okay now, Harlan?” Jim asked in a hearty voice.
Dad nodded.
“You just rest on the floor a minute. Then we’ll put you in your chair.”
Dad nodded again.
Jim noticed Dan’s white face and went to him. “Uncle Harlan’s gonna be okay. That was kinda scary, wuddin’ it? Why doncha’ come over here and sit with me for awhile?” Dan and his dad went to rest with Harlan on the floor.
That day my Uncle Jim helped save my father’s life. To this day, long after my father’s death, the Stratton/Hoey gang crams into one house for a yearly weekend of good, cheap fun. I love to see my cousins and their children pull up and spill out of their cars, but I can hardly wait until Jim and Donna arrive. Donna wraps me in a big hug and kisses me on the cheek. Uncle Jim nods and in his Kansas twang says, “How are you, Jo?”
I go to him and let his arms hold me up as they once held my father.
by jphilo | Jun 27, 2014 | Reflections on the Past
Once again, a packed June schedule means there’s been no time to prepare a post for today. So once again, I dug into old writing files and pulled out a chapter from Lessons from My Father. That’s the book about growing up with my dad who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis when he was 29 and wheelchair bound shortly thereafter. It’s also the book that landed an agent, but has yet to be published.
Today’s story comes from early in the book and in Dad’s illness. It takes place in a short span of time when Dad’s father lived with our family and then entered a nursing home. This story caught my eye because of the reference to the Little Store. At our high school class reunion, we reminisced about that same establishment, which was a neighborhood grocery store that operated in a converted garage.
But the story is about much more than sweet memories of the Little Store. It is about one of the many losses my parents experienced in the late 1950s and early 1960s. As a child, I didn’t understand how their dreams were snatched away, one after another. Now, as an adult, I marvel at their ability to keep going during those sad years.
Grandpa Stanton
Grandchildren are the crown of old men,
And the glory of sons is their fathers.
Proverbs 17: 6
“I’m goin’ to the Little Store. I’m goin’ to the Little Store.” A surge of satisfaction welled up from deep within me as I sang to myself. My small hand fitted perfectly into Grandpa’s big one, and I reined in my high spirits. I attempted to glide beside him in a dignified, graceful manner worthy of his presence, and at the same time I quivered with anticipation of the delight that awaited only one short block away.
“What are you going to buy with your nickel, Jolene?” Grandpa looked down from his great height with a smile.
I looked up at him, comforted rather than intimidated by his stature. I liked looking up to him, an act not necessary when I walked beside my father’s rolling chair. I pondered my answer while avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk. Notoriously clumsy, I didn’t want to trip and fall, ruining this delicious outing. “Whaddya think I should get, Grandpa?”
He always gave me, one of his only three grandchildren, thoughtful advice which my other grandpa with three times as many descendants to his credit never had the time to offer. “Do you like gum? You could buy a pack and share it with your family. Five sticks. You’d have just enough.”
Mentally, I flushed that idea. Grandpa had given me a whole nickel to spend on myself. No way was I going to share. “Nope, I don’t like gum.”
“Do you like candy bars?” he probed. I liked this about my grandpa. Mom didn’t have time to find out what I liked, and Dad didn’t always have the staying power. Neither of them had nickels to squander on candy from the Little Store, but Grandpa Stanton did, at least during this most fulfilling interlude, a short April to November, when he lived with us. He lavished upon his grandchildren the time, attention, and nickels they loved.
“Chocolate, lots,” I confessed.
“Do you like nuts?” He knew just the right questions, always.
“Uh-uh.” That I knew with certainty.
“Then I,” Grandpa counseled with great solemnity, “recommend a Milky Way.”
We walked into the Little Store, and I looked at the candy rack. Grandpa was right. A Milky Way was just what I wanted. I placed the candy bar and my nickel on the counter.
“This somebody special, Jolene?” Mrs. Manning asked as she rang up the sale. She recognized all the kids in the neighborhood. Most of them purchased candy and pop from the tiny shelves that lined the garage she had outfitted as a neighborhood grocery store. The Stanton kids only came for a loaf of Wonderbread or a half-gallon of milk when those staples ran out mid-week. She correctly deduced that this candy purchase was a noteworthy event. I, however, was surprised by her question and gaped at her, speechless and flustered.
“I’m her grandpa, Cyril Stanton.” Grandpa reached across the counter, shook her hand, and then gave me my candy bar.
“He lives at our house now. He gave me a nickel.” Grandpa’s rescue primed my pump, and I added the important details to Grandpa’s rather sparse introduction.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stanton. I’m sure Harlan enjoys having you there.”
I clutched my candy bar in one hand and slipped the other back into Grandpa’s, pulling him out the door. I didn’t like sharing my time alone with Grandpa. I hung from his arm for our entire two block walk, waiting to open and eat the candy bar, an act that required two hands on my part, until I got home.
“Thanks, Grandpa.”
“You’re welcome, Jolene.” I smiled up at him, and his eyes smiled down at me beneath the black, bristly eyebrow so thick there was just one that went all the way across his face. I walked as slowly as possible, determined to eek as much pleasure as possible out of the short trip. I was convinced that heaven, at least the one described by my Sunday school teacher, couldn’t be much better than this.
Having Grandpa live with us seemed a heaven-sent solution when he first arrived. His diabetes had become more troublesome since Grandma Stanton died, but for years Grandpa continued to live and work alone in Nevada, Iowa, visiting our family often. When he went into insulin shock while driving one day, his car stalled on the railroad tracks. A swift rescue by the local police saved his life, but not his liberty or happiness. His driver’s license was revoked, and he was stranded. Living with us gave him places to go and people to see, and a way to get to both. For awhile the arrangement seemed like it would work. At age six, I thought life couldn’t get any better, but there was lots about adult life that I didn’t know.
I didn’t know that my grandpa who looked so young, with a full head of black hair barely flecked with grey, was going into diabetic shock often. My mother had to get up each night to check on him and correct the imbalance with an orange juice and sugar midnight cocktail. Even my sister knew the signs and gave him orange juice as needed during the day. I didn’t know that when school started in the fall, Mom was so tired from interrupted sleep that she could hardly drag herself to work. I didn’t know that my grandpa, who always acted so calm and caring and looked so dashing in the short sleeved sports shirts he wore unbuttoned at the neck, was losing his sense of judgement. I didn’t know that my grandpa, who gave us handpicked gifts like carved wooden wishing well banks from Canada and red felt cowboy hats with white trim as well as savings bonds for college, had kicked my misbehaving little brother one day. I didn’t know for many years that those were the reasons for my mother’s announcement one night.
“Grandpa Stanton isn’t going to live with us anymore,” Mom explained as we finished supper. “He’s going to live at an old folks’ home in Cedar Falls where there are nurses to take care of him and lots of people to talk to.” She tried to give it a good spin. “Grandpa even knows the director. He was the minister in Nevada when Grandma Stanton was still alive.”
I didn’t know that our minister had been so concerned about Grandpa’s situation that he had come to school, taken Mom out of class, and asked what he could do to assist her. I didn’t know that he had called the director of the Evangelical United Brethren (EUB) Home and made all the arrangements. All I knew was that I didn’t want this grandpa to leave, and I couldn’t imagine that my dad could want his dad to go.
We drove Grandpa to the home the day after Thanksgiving. Earlier in the week our minister had contacted the director of the home, effectively conveying the urgency of the situation.
“We have an opening right now, and we’ll hold it for Cyril,” the director and old friend agreed.
“The only thing is, he has to be able to walk in on his own.”
Mom knew Grandpa was failing fast, so as soon as the turkey leftovers were tucked in the refrigerator, she helped him pack, and the next morning we scrambled into the car. We were a pretty somber crew on the way over, but once we got there, from my vantage point, the old folks’ home was a great place to visit. Of course, I didn’t have to live there. A big statue of a lion stood outside the imposing front door of the many storied brick building that I was sure covered at least three city blocks. As honored grandchildren, we were allowed to climb on the lion and “ride” it. I took the honor very seriously and religiously performed my duty each time we went to see Grandpa.
Once we entered the building, scores of ancient eyes fixed upon us, wrinkled lips croaked greetings. “Look, Mabel,” I heard one starved voice marvel, “children.” Fluttery, shaking hands, moths to a flame, reached out to touch me as I walked by, and I shrank away, moving close to my father’s wheelchair. Sour smells, like the inside of my dad’s urinal, swirled around me, making my nose squinch shut and my mouth wrinkle.
“Jolene, get rid of that face. You’ll hurt their feelings,” Mom whispered.
I tried to smile, but every pungent, sharp breath twisted my face into a lemon. Our shoes clicked on the shiny floors of endless tomblike hallways until we stopped at the doorway of a small room. Grandpa put his luggage on the bed and unpacked. Once he was settled in, we stayed for dinner and visited awhile, gaining fortitude for our return trip which was over three hours tacked on to the three hours plus we’d spent getting here.
Our presence in the dining room presented a political problem. “Why,” one white-haired matron asked a dining room staff person, “do all three of those perfectly darling children get to sit at the same table? It is not fair.”
I searched the dining room, which I estimated was as big as a high school gymnasium, for the three “perfectly darling children”, but couldn’t find them.
“Jolene,” Mom asked, “would you be willing to go sit at the table with that lady?” She pointed to the outspoken matron. “She doesn’t get to eat with children very often. Try and get rid of that sour face and smile,” she advised. “John, you could go sit at that table with those nice men, and Jill, you can stay right there by Grandpa.”
Us? We were the “three perfectly darling children”? I was dumbstruck but willingly trotted over to the white-haired matron who was pulling an empty chair up close beside hers, motioning me over. “Well,” I wondered, “how’m I gonna act ‘perfectly darling’?” By the end of the meal, I was still clueless, but none of my tablemates seemed to mind. They just kept patting my head, offering to cut my meat, asking me questions, treating me as if I was “perfectly darling.” I was basking in the limelight, filled to the brim with the extra desserts they had passed on to me. “Whadda place to live,” I thought. “Grandpa’s got it made.”
Grandpa didn’t have it made. He was lonely, and we visited as often as we could, but the trip took a whole day, and even though we were “perfectly darling children” the moment we stepped into the old folks’ home, we were not always so on the trip there and back. Our first few visits chased away Grandpa’s loneliness, and our entrance into the dining room delighted him to no end.
“Look, Cyril’s darling grandchildren are here again” the cry would go up, and he chuckled as he watched the diners fight over us, the victors carrying us off as spoils to their table-length fiefdoms.
When we went outside for a walk with Grandpa, he handed us dimes. Yes, dimes. “Do you hear that bell?” He and Dad grinned. Mom steered Dad’s chair toward a bench where she and Grandpa sat down.
A magical tinkle of chimes drifted towards me. “What’s that?”
“The Good Humor Man,” Grandpa explained.
I looked blank. My dad was right beside me. Who else could be the “Good Humor Man?”
“The ice cream truck,” Dad translated.
“Oh.”
“Go on,” Grandpa coached. “Wave to the man and buy a treat.”
I obeyed and ran after my sister and brother to the truck. All the way home I tasted the ice cream bar Grandpa’s dime had bought.
I anticipated similar delights as we drove in the parking lot for our next visit, but they weren’t forthcoming. When we got to Grandpa’s room, I noticed his hair was still black, but he looked lots older. When we walked in to greet him, he didn’t look at any of us, just cocked his ear in the direction of the sound. His eyes were vacant, blinded by diabetes, and he couldn’t see how perfectly darling we looked that day. During the following visit we stood beside the bed where he lay unaware of our presence. By Thanksgiving, barely a year after he went into the home, he was dead.
I was too young to grieve, more than superficially, and so was my brother. Grandpa’s loss to me was a loss of creature comforts: unexpected dimes and nickels, a lap to sit upon, a smile that made me feel very loved, a hand to hold, a friend to talk to.
For my father and mother and sister, the grief was much deeper and wrenching. They had lost the one person who had time to give them the wholehearted emotional support they needed. My father and mother lost the last person who had shared their original vision of a hopeful future. My father, without brothers or sisters to comfort him, lost the most enduring link to his childhood.
While I had lost a bearer of sweet gifts, my father had lost his bearings.
