My Memories of November 22, 1963, The Day JFK Died

Two days after I turned sixteen on November 20, 1963, I was returning to Falls City High School from our noon lunch break. My friend, Carol Malick, had come to my home to pick me up in her car, and we had picked up a couple more girls along the way back to school. When we arrived at the school we were just about to pull into the parking lot when I heard something on the radio that caught my attention. I said, "Quiet!" and turned the audio up. I'm not sure we really believed what we were hearing, but I remember sitting there in the car totally stunned. I don't recall that we exchanged any conversation at all.  The newsman was reporting that John F. Kennedy, the President of the United States, had been shot in Dallas, Texas, and was rushed to a hospital.

My next memory is of sitting in the library adjacent to the Study Hall area at a table close to the front of the room. The tables were filled, though I don't remember how much of the Study Hall was occupied. We had all been required to go to our classes for that hour, but I think there were some in with us that had chosen to listen to the reports there. The school intercom system was broadcasting from a radio station all the moment by moment reports coming across the wires. Other than the radio blasting the awful news, there was silence. No one spoke. The teachers sat motionless at their desks. I watched the clock on the wall and listened, praying for the words that we would not hear, that he was alive, that he had come out of surgery and was doing well.

I was sixteen years old, and I was enamoured with my President of the United States and especially with his wife. John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy were young and beautiful and fashionable people who had become leaders of our great nation. I simply loved them for those reasons. Politics meant nothing to me then, only their image. I remember visiting at my brother's home the summer before and reading all the movie magazines that my sister-in-law had bought. I even bought some with my own money. Anything that had a picture or an article about Jackie Kennedy I devoured. She was beautiful and glamorous, and I wanted to know everything about her. She was a well-spoken, sophisticated woman, with the softest voice I had ever heard. President Kennedy was handsome and charming and a gifted speaker with a pronounced New England accent. I just couldn't get enough of this marvelous duo.

I believe that many teens of my era were as in love with the Kennedy's as I was. Young people of the 60s generation were idealistic and rebellious of the established way of life. The expectation was that John Kennedy and his administration would make the changes for America that would begin a new era of freedom for minorities, namely the black Americans, and for all to live in whatever manner they chose. Affluence was a sign of detestable weakness to the youth of the 60s, strictly to be avoided. No one seemed to notice that the name Kennedy was the epitome of wealth and power.

That Friday all those idealist dreams came crashing in front of us. But, for the moment, sitting in that school library, we listened over and over to the announcers rehashing the events of the morning. The President, First Lady and their entourage had deplaned at what seems like was about 9 that morning. There had been a convoy of cars, including a car with the governor of Texas, John Connolly, in one, and the president, Mrs. Kennedy in the back seat of that car. They were riding in an open convertible. I believe they were initially to take another route through downtown Dallas, but for some reason the plan had changed. I don't recall if this had any bearing on the outcome of the day. But, these were the kind of reports being broadcast over and over as we waited and waited for what seemed like hours, but, in fact, it was less than an hour that we were finally to hear the worst.

I can't tell you exactly the words, but what I remember is that the voice was of a most mournful man telling us that President Kennedy had died and been pronounced dead at 1p.m. The room, as with all the nation, erupted in the most awful, sinking feeling. Tears and disbelief filled our world. Our hope was gone, dead, pronounced dead at 1p.m.

I believe I went to another class soon after, history class. But I'm also almost sure that school was dismissed before the end of the school day. I went home and parked in front of the TV. We listened for the rest of the evening to the same facts repeated. I should remember it all word for word, but it is all a blur. Only one fact remains in my memory, and I hesitate to repeat it. But it is in my memory. It is also a reminder of the gravity of attitudes that were rampant then, and still are, in our country. It is the reminder of hate.

LIFE IS ONE LONG MUSICAL

Today we were talking on Facebook about old songs and their lyrics. Jill joined in the conversation, and she and I began to converse using lines from different songs. This reminded me of the songs that she and I shared in some way over the years. Jill laughed and said "Life is one long musical", and I thought, how true!

When Jill and her brothers were very young our family went through a very tumultuous time. Things were very bad between me and my husband, the boys seemed to be getting into some kind of trouble at school a lot, and I had come to a point in my life when I felt trapped and alone. Alone except for my little girl. It was almost as if we had come to a place where it was just her and me against everyone else.

At that time a song came out sung by Helen Reddy, and it became very popular. It was called "You and Me Against the World". I'm not sure Jill understood why, but for me it became "our song". At the end of the song a little girl says, "I love you, Mommy." And Helen Reddy says, "I love you too, Baby." To this day, Jill and I end all of our phone conversations with these lines from that song. This has become one of the most precious moments in my life.

Jill and I are huge Barry Manilow fans, unashamedly. One of Barry's songs became a song that she and I would sing to one another for the rest of our lives because it says exactly how we feel about one another. The song is "I Can't Smile Without You". And I can't hear or sing the song without smiling and thinking of my Jill.

When Jill was a teen she and I listened to the radio a lot, listening to oldies and to the new music of the 80s. A group called Huey Lewis and the News began having hits, and she and I liked their music very much. One day I was in my bedroom reading, and Jill had her radio on in her room, so we both were listening. Huey Lewis and the News came on singing their new hit "Happy To Be Stuck With You". When they got to the chorus I looked up to see Jill's hand sticking out around the door to my room with her thumb and pointer finger pretending to be singing "Happy To Be Stuck With You". A new memory had been established, and today we sing those words to one another and enjoy the love that comes with those words. Oh, and we still do the thumb and finger singing.

Uncle John's Pun

    One morning I picked up my son John to go 

      to breakfast with him. As I backed out of the driveway 

     and started to pull away I noticed that his front 

       door was not closed completely, but standing half open. 

           I said to John, "Why is your door ajar?", 

       and he replied, "I don't know, Mom, but it's not a jar. 

It's a door."

The Cat-lady Who Lived On the Corner

I grew up in a nice enough neighborhood, but there was an old lady who lived on the corner who was a bit of a hermit. She seldom mowed her lawn or had anyone cut it for her. Over time, the woman had accumulated (this is no exaggeration) fifty to seventy-five cats, all of them underfed and wild. These feral cats would scrounge in everyone's trash barrel in the alley, and if you happened upon them they would pounce, doing some very unpleasant damage. People were on foot a lot, and walking past her house was not always safe.

When I got my driver's license and my car, a fast 1959 Ford, I  left a lot of tire tracks on her lawn if I saw a cat near the street. I never got caught, and no neighbor ever turned me in. I learned to hate cats through that, but thankfully I got over it.

The house has since been torn down, the poor old hermit lady resting in her eternal home. It's been replaced by a very nice modern house, complete with mowed lawn and no cats. That is, none that I can find anyway.

MY ENGLISH GARDEN

We raised our family in Lincoln, Nebraska, in a beautiful, circa 1900 two story home, complete with a gable of windows jutting out over the large front porch where the swing welcomed long hours of quiet relaxation. Our home resided on an avenue where large oaks and maples graced our view and separated us from our neighbors across a wide expanse.  They provided the most spectacular visions after heavy wet snows and freezing ice storms that coated the limbs and sparkled in the morning sun. It was at this house that my gardening juices began to flow, and I would spend hours of the day planting and experimenting, planning and digging, and trying to duplicate the wonderful memories I had of growing up with the heritage of perennials and vegetable gardening. What I know about flowers and edibles I've learned by trial and error, but mostly amazing success. There were a few who were able and willing to teach me, but I read what I could and learned what I could from personal experience, which, I think, is always the best way to learn.

The adventure began when my husband's mother was thinning out her Bridal Wreath Spirea, and I was thrilled to receive enough to line most of the lot line on one side of our house. Then two of my children came home one Arbor Day, Nebraska, remember, with Russian Olive trees to plant. I had no idea what a Russian Olive tree was, but soon learned to call it a favorite. Its delightful spring perfume is almost overpowering! The vegetable garden came next, and along with the Black Walnut tree and raspberries that were already there, we began our years of fresh produce and lovely flowers.

I did finally tire of the work that accompanies the vegetable gardening and decided one day to change the area that I had grown tomatoes and potatoes in to what I thought of as an English garden. I think there is nothing lovelier. You can have the crisp lines of manicured lawns and landscaped order, but I prefer the cacophony of color and disarray, and I call it quaint and refreshing. I began in the center with a large planting of red canna. I had never really liked canna, but I thought the tall center would be a good start. Then I began to try everything I could get my hands on, just to find what I wanted to keep and what I didn't. My favorites over the years were nasturtium, poppies, bachelor buttons, iris, lantana, foxglove, daisies of all colors and sizes, cone flowers, garden phlox, cleome, hollyhocks and peonies. During the summer I scattered annuals here and there to intensify the color and vary the heights.

Along the side of the house where one of the Russian Olives had been planted and along the row of spirea, I lovingly created a "retreat". There I had roses and iris along with a bench and some decorative items for interest. Whenever we hit a garage sale I watched for the water pumps and old tools and a sundial, and of course, bird houses.

Rhubarb

After our family grew up and went on their way we decided to leave the huge old place to younger folks who were more inclined to lots of yard work, and found our lives confined in the splendor of a brick home, (ah! no more painting!), with a smaller, manicured front lawn (hmm), and a steeply pitched back yard that had very limited possibilities for an old gal like me to think about. At the top of this pitched yard, behind the garage, was a small area big enough to plant some rhubarb and a tomato or two. I was happy.

Today I am limited to mostly container gardening. I even plant my tomatoes and lettuce in containers. My advancing age and limiting health problems have successfully sidelined me from the playing fields of wildflowers and hours of fun in the sun, or even the shade, for that matter. I have pots scattered here and there that are close enough to the house for easy tending. I have a rhubarb plant stuck off in the corner for periodic breakfast and pie fruit. And, best of all, I have a neighbor right across the street who has created the most beautiful English Garden right in her front yard. What joy! I have this gorgeous garden perfectly situated for my inspection every day, albeit from across the street, and I don't have to lift a finger. No green thumb to worry about any longer. The green thumb is on her hand, and all the hard work is on her back, and all the time, I'm smiling. Sometimes getting older ain't so bad.

Clothes Lines

Someone sent me this list of facts about hanging clothes when we were young. Some of it I deleted because it didn't really apply, and then I added some things. Washing clothes was a weekly chore, always on Mondays, and procrastinating to another day just was not done. This was a "must" on Mondays. And, this is the way it was for everyone. All the clothes lines on our block and the blocks around us were full of clean clothes on Monday mornings. 

1. You had to wash the clothes lines before hanging any clothes by walking the entire length of each line with a damp cloth around the lines. Most of the time my mother insisted that it be done twice, just to be sure they were clean enough. 

2. You had to hang the clothes in a certain order, and always hang "whites" with "whites," and hang them first. Now, the reason this was done was because they were hung as they came out of the washer. Whites were always washed first because it was a wringer washer, and so the water was cleanest, and you never washed colored clothes with whites. 

3. You never hung a shirt by the shoulders, always by the tail! The clothes pins caused indentations and creases in clothes. They were ironed out, but it was better to not have the crease in the shoulders. 

4. Wash day is on a Monday! It was too much work to set up the wringer washer more than once a week, and Monday was a good day to start the week off with clean clothes. It was all done in one day, and ironed the next day.
                                                                                                 

5. Hang the sheets and towels on the outside lines so you could hide your "unmentionables" in the middle. This really wasn't a big deal to my mom, but the sheets were the first load, hung first, and so were on the outside line.

6. It didn't matter if it was sub zero weather. Clothes would "freeze-dry." Sometimes you could wear gloves to hang them, but it was tedious and took longer. When the clothes were dry they were stiff as a board and rough. Ironing took that all out.

7. Always gather the clothes pins when taking down dry clothes. Pins left on the lines got dirty and that wasn't good for clean clothes.  Mom always sewed her clothespin bags fashioned from scraps of material and resembling the one shown here. We had a lot of clothespins, and the bag had to be substantial.

8. If you were efficient, you would line the clothes up so that each item did not need two clothes pins, but shared one of the clothes pins with the next washed item. It saved clothes pins, and it saved space on the line. 

9. Clothes were put into the basket, folded and put away or ironed. The clothes that were to be ironed were usually sprayed or sprinkled with a water bottle, rolled up and put in a basket. Damp clothes are easier to iron than dry. 

10. There also were clothesline poles with a notch in the top to prop up the line in different places along the line to keep it from getting too heavy and allowing clothes to drag on the ground. 

12. The clothes always smelled of the great outdoors. When I crawled into bed on Monday nights and smelled my clean pillow cases and sheets it was the freshest smell in the world.

Strange Words and Phrases My Parents Used

I'm sure that I can never remember all of these in one sitting, so this will have to be an ongoing topic, writing about them when I think of them.

1. "cheese the racket" I admit to you that I have always thought that this line was one of the stupidest lines I had ever heard, and I haven't changed my mind on that. This statement was used in a gruff manner by either of my parents to express their desire for me to shut up. They never would have said shut up, but it sure would have made better sense to me if they had.

2. "Well, I'll swan!" This was an expression that my mother would use to proclaim her surprise at some fact or sight. For instance, let's say the neighbor may have painted their house a strange color of blue. Mother might look out the window and say, "Well, I'll swan!" I recently experienced hearing that same expression in a Tom Selleck western movie, spoken by one of the characters. What a treat to hear it again! Ron had never heard it before, and I had not heard it since my mother died. Since coming south to live I have discovered some possibilities as to where it began, but I have nothing concrete to prove it. It may have something to do with the name Swanee which is prevalent in Georgia.

After further review from the dictionary:swan
34 ENTRIES FOUND:
1) swan (noun)
2) swan (verb)
3) swan (verb)
3 swan verb
swanned swan·ning
Definition of SWAN
intransitive verbdialect
: declare, swear
Origin of SWAN
perhaps euphemism for swear
First Known Use: 1784
Well, I'll swan!

3. "addle-do" Actually what my Mom was saying was "that'll do", meaning hush, or no more behaving like that. John, Jay and Jill all thought that she was saying "addle-do" and thought this was pretty strange and funny. So did I, kids.

4. "Grab a root and growl." This was an expression my mom used when feeding a larger group, always family. It must have been a very common thing to say in her family, as everyone would give a big smile and dig into the food. I have never heard anyone but my mom use this term, but I have heard it said in old John Wayne movies.

   I have realized that I have a friend in Georgia, Debbie Bell, who says this. I was just wide-eyed the first time I heard her say it, and now realize she says it every time we are ready to eat. It's such a thrill for me to hear it!

5. When shopping with mom we always met people that she hadn't seen in a while. When asked how she was she always responded, "Well, I can't complain, but I do anyway."

6.  Mom was almost always ready to go, to jump in the car and go someplace. The ony thing that would need to be done was to put some shoes on because she loved to go barefooted. So, if anyone said, "Lucile. Do you want to go to the store with us?" Mom would reply, "Just let me dress my feet."

Fishing and Hunting With Daddy

I wish with all my heart that you could have heard my Mom and Dad laugh. They both had an infectious, hearty laugh that would fill your heart with the same pleasure that caused it. Their lives had been filled with tragic heartaches and losses, and yet they nourished their capacity to enjoy life with delight at the humor that one finds as they trod on through it. My Mom loved God, worshipped Him in her life and in her singing, and so there was a constant peace and joyfulness about her. My Dad was angry with God for taking two of his children away from him, so his life was less than peaceful, and his moments of joy came and went with the people that he chose to be with. Still, the love and contentment that my Mom and Dad shared with one another was one of their greatest times of laughter and fun.

My Dad was not an educated man, leaving school after the 8th grade, but he was a hard working man and was very personable and social. He had a working knowledge of mechanics, so he was employed for some years as a car mechanic for Ford when we lived in Auburn. When we moved to Falls City he again worked for Ford Motors, but then put his talents to good use by selling cars, rather than fixing them, and then finished his life working for a car parts store. He was good at everything that he did, but I think one of Dad's flaws was his temper and pride that, many times, got in the way of being a reasonable man. Dad was never fired, but if he felt he was being offended in any way he could walk away and never look back. He was a civil man, but if you ever crossed him you lost his respect and friendship. He never spoke badly of you to others, but he would never recommend you either. He held grudges until the day he died, but he did it quietly.

Hard work and special talents do not guarantee high salaries. I remember at one time my attentive ears heard that my Dad brought home $50 each week. I had no idea at the time what that meant, but I was able to assemble all my facts to realize that we certainly had to do without a lot of things. My parents did a lot of things to make up for their lack of funds and to pay bills. My mother sewed almost all of my clothes, and hers, including our coats and jackets. My dad did all the grocery shopping, using Mom's list of necessities and his knowledge of where he could find the cheapest meats and vegetables. We had a big garden every year and canned what we couldn't eat. Our freezer was filled with fish and wild game that Dad brought home. We were friendly with many people who farmed and we purchased sides of beef and chickens and hams at much less than we would have paid in the store. Twice I remember my Dad shooting a deer, and we feasted on the meat for months. All these things, and much more, were done to help make ends meet financially, and I really appreciated none of it. I had no idea then just how hard my parents worked every day, though I do believe that I came away from their examples with a very excellent work ethic.

Many times after work when Dad went fishing on summer evenings he would take me along. Mom went in earlier years, but her knees kept her from climbing some of the river banks where we fished, so she would stay home if she knew it would be difficult. Some places were easier to get to than others. I loved going fishing with Daddy, especially when it was just the two of us. When you're fishing on a river bank there can't be a lot of talking going on or the fish won't come around. But when we did we talked softly, and he would share stories with me or just talk to me a little bit about his day. Often he played little tricks on me just for fun. He laughed a lot when we were together fishing.

Many times we fished with Dad's friend Vern Malick. Vern was Dad's best friend who owned a car body shop. They were both fun, terrible teases, and I was a very good target because I was shy and quiet, very gullible and naive. I became friends with Vern's daughter Carol who was a year older than I, and she was none of these things, so I'm pretty sure I was brought along for the comic relief, which was fine with me. I loved it because I loved them and I loved the attention I got from them. And they teased me with love.

I think I must have been eleven or twelve the night that Dad and Vern and I went fishing on a small creek just east of Salem, NE. It was a beautiful early fall evening, still warm but fall was in the air. There weren't a lot of trees surrounding this area, so the autumn moon, which was directly behind us, filled the sky with it's light with little to break the view except an old grain barn. This barn stood against the moonlight like a giant A with short wings on the side. The moon made the barn loose all of its detail and it was a black shape with a spooky air about it, especially if you're a twelve year old girl.

Soon Dad and Vern began to tell ghost stories, and I wished they would start a fire so I didn't feel so cold and alone in the dark. Their eyes twinkled as they told a story of three hunters out in the woods years ago. One of the hunters had been accidentally shot and died in the hunt, and the other two had carried him back to their cabin, lit a fire for comfort, and then began to mourn the loss of their friend. Along with the fire for comfort they also produced a stash of whiskey that they had brought along for the long cold nights, and they began to drink it and talk of the friendship that the three had shared over the years. The more they talked, the more they drank, and they began to feel sad that they couldn't share their strong drink with the deceased. An idea came upon one of them, and they decided to prop open the dead man's mouth and pour a little whiskey down his gullet. The more they drank the more they talked and the more whiskey was shared with their dearly departed.

At this point I remember my Dad and Vern had paused in the story for some reason because I had to ask my Dad if that was all of the story. "Oh, no. That's not all!" And then they picked up where they left off knowing that they had me right where they wanted me. I was totally fixed on the story and the pictures that I had created in my mind of those two old hunters and a dead man.

All of a sudden the dead man, full of whiskey that had been poured into his throat, sat straight up on the table where they had laid him out. The two remaining friends left all behind and scrambled out into the cold night and forest never to be seen again.

By this time my Dad was laughing so loud and so hard that there was no way we were ever going to catch a fish that night. Of course, his laughter had nothing to do with the story. It had to do with the look on my face at the thought of a dead man sitting straight up on a table. They laughed and laughed and then explained to me that the body full of alcohol would cause the muscles to contract and make the body involuntarily move. Well, then I was fine, but they had had their fun for the night, at my expense, and so we went home empty handed. No fish to clean that night.

Another evening my Dad and I were alone on the Nemaha River, a few miles between Falls City and Salem. It was a very popular fishing spot, and surprisingly there was no one else there that night. It had just begun to get dark. All was quiet, and Dad and I were enjoying the sounds of the summer night. I noticed that Dad had begun to look over at me quite a bit, but he said nothing. Trying to behave I didn't ask why. We sat quietly. He kept looking at me and he began to grin. I know my Dad well, and I knew he was up to something, but I had no idea what. All of a sudden there was this loud, screeching sound right behind me, and the next thing I knew I was up to my knees in the edge of the river, soaking wet from the splash, my hair dripping. My Dad could hardly stand up to help me out of the water because he was laughing so hard. He had watched a tiny screech owl walk up behind me, not realizing that this very still statue was a real person. It must have finally realized I was there, made an alarmed and frightful scream and ran for the brush. After I was out of the water, and the truth was known, that I was not going to be eaten by some huge animal, I had a good laugh about it, but it took a long time for me to stop shaking and calm down. It took a long time, months...years, for my Dad to stop laughing about it. And, again, we went home empty handed.

I hunted with my Dad for years as well. He had given a .22 caliber rifle to me, and I wasn't a bad shot. When he flushed birds I was often able to hit one, but I think only because I got lucky. What I was able to do was hit a squirrel if he sat still long enough on the tree limb. He wouldn't take me deer hunting because he didn't think I could sit still long enough or be quiet enough. We did a lot of road hunting, but you can't tell anyone that because it was illegal. Still is, I think. I didn't like to rabbit hunt, though I went along, because I couldn't hit the stupid things because they ran so fast and jaggedly. I also had pet rabbits at home, so I was a bit loathe to kill one, no matter how tasty they were. I could eat them, I just couldn't kill them.

One very cold winter day we went out for squirrel. He had parked the car along a roadside and we had walked but a few feet when Dad stopped and pointed silently at a small tree maybe thirty yards away. On the bare tree limb sat a red squirrel munching on his lunch and watching us very carefully. I stopped, checked my rifle, and then I aimed it at him. And he just sat there and looked at me. I knew what my Dad was thinking, and I was trying to take the shot, but I couldn't. That dumb squirrel was looking at me! Right at me! And he was still chewing on his lunch. The look in his eye was almost a trusting look; trusting that I was not going to hurt him. And I didn't. I couldn't shoot him. That was the last time I went hunting with my Dad. I knew I would never be capable of shooting another animal, so there was no sense in going. Dad wasn't mad or even disappointed. I'm pretty sure he understood.

We drove up into Minnesota a couple of times on fishing trips, but mostly we stayed close to home. There were a couple of lakes in Nebraska where we went to frog hunt, and that was fun. The most fun about that was watching Mom trying to keep the frog legs from jumping out of the skillet as she cooked them. Again the muscles thing. When the muscles got hot from the grease it caused them to contract and they would leap out of the pan onto the floor, with Mom trying to catch them before they landed.

We spent lots of nights at certain creeks where we would catch crawdads and minnows for fishing the next night. And after a good rain I hustled over to our neighbor's yard where the night crawlers were so thick they made the whole ground look shiny when you shone your flashlight on them. Oh, what fun! You grabbed for the night crawler as he quickly slurped back into his hole, then you had to hold on tight to keep it from slipping out of your hands and disappearing. The neighborhood kids and I went home with buckets of worms and slimy mud and worm goo up to our knees and elbows. I can honestly say that catching night crawlers is one of the most fun things I've ever done in my whole life; right up there with riding a roller coaster.

The worst part of hunting and fishing is cleaning the kill. Thankfully my Dad never made me clean fish. I think he was a little picky about how that was done. He did make me bait my own hook, but that was no big deal, aside from the fact that sometimes I couldn't get my worm to hold still.
I was seldom excused from cleaning the squirrels that I shot. He always said, "You kill it, you clean it." Funny that didn't go for fish. But I'm glad. What I didn't like to help with were the birds; the ducks and the geese and even the chickens when Dad would bring home a live one, and Mom had to kill it, and I got to help clean it. Yuk. I hated the feathers.

One day Dad had three wild geese laid out on the kitchen table to be cleaned. He had already started the process, scalded the dead birds so the feathers came off easier. I said easier, not easily. It's a stinky, yukky job. All of a sudden Mom announced that it was time for them to leave; they needed to go vote. So guess who got stuck with the geese. They left, and I picked and I pulled and I picked. Now, I ask you. How long does it take for two grown adults to go to the polls to vote? I was almost completely done with all three of those stinky birds before they came home to relieve me. My Dad was so surprised that I had not finished yet. I'm convinced to this day that they took the long way there, the long way home, and stopped for a visit somewhere. I hated doing dishes, but I hated cleaning birds worse.

So, growing up I ate lots of rabbit, squirrel, quail, pheasant, catfish, bullheads, even carp, wild ducks and geese and deer. All furnished by a fun trip to the river or the open fields. These were wonderful times, good memories with my Dad, and I will cherish them always.

THE STOVE

Nebraska winters can be extreme and bitterly cold. Mild winters are only occasional, and always include at least a few days of very low temperatures and some considerable snowfalls. My memories of winters when I was a child consist of wonderful fun and playful times in snow and sliding on ice. And in the midst of those memories stands a large brown monster of metal planted firmly into the corner of the center room of our house. It was ugly, cumbersome, dark, and dangerous if you leaned upon it, but it was my favorite place on those cold mornings as I prepared for school. It was the gas stove that heated our house.

On a January or February morning in circa 1960 I would awake in my room at the back of the house beyond the kitchen. Even though it nestled next to the warm kitchen, it still was the coldest room in the house, and that's one reason I liked it because I liked sleeping in a cold room. I awakened beneath so many blankets I wonder I could even move. There was a sheet, usually flannel in winter, two or three blankets, a quilt and a chenille bedspread. There were a few years when I was blessed to have an electric blanket. When I poked my nose out from under all this protection I would immediately see my breath as I exhaled from my warm body. I would turn to my right and look directly through the only window in the room, and on the sill would stand about an inch of frost, and the frost trailed up the window panes about one fourth of the way. Oh, how I wished I could stay under all those blankets, but I knew there was no hope for that. So, I would scramble from my warm bed, grab the clothes that I laid out the night before, and rush to the dining room where I would huddle behind that huge, warm piece of metal to dress. It took no time at all for me to finish; I didn't dally any longer than I had to. I dressed very quickly.

The brown stove was the first place I stopped when I came in from school. I removed my knitted gloves or mittens and laid them on the coolest part of the grilled top so as to dry and warm them if I had to go back out. I came home every day at noon for lunch because we couldn't afford school lunches, and I hated taking a sack lunch. We lived twelve blocks from school, so I appreciated the warmth of that old stove.

Mom also used the top of the stove to keep lunch warm for Dad and me. My favorite lunch was potato soup, so the big pot would be there waiting for us. Mom had many other chores to do, so making lunch ahead of time and keeping it warm was easier for her. On Mondays Mom baked bread for the week, and she would keep the baked bread on the stove until after lunch so that we could have hot bread.

In the bathroom, nestled next to the large claw-foot bathtub, was a very small gas stove to heat that room, and the kitchen was heated by the oven. On really cold days Mom would leave the door on the oven open to help heat the room, and the oven was never turned off during the winter months.

I am very thankful for the wonderful conveniences we have today. We didn't have air conditioning when I was growing up, just a large square fan perched in a screened window. Most of my friends had heat and air conditioning in their homes. We weren't that fortunate, but the memories I have of that old brown stove are sweet and precious.