MY MOM (part two) Aprons

Mom had a dresser drawer full of aprons, all hand-made by her, all ironed and folded. The purposes of an apron were unending, and a hard-working woman of the house really couldn't function without one. The apron was a necessary part of each day's apparel, worn from morning until retiring, unless special company came when it was quickly used to dust as many surfaces as possible, run across the forehead to remove any dampness, wipe her hands, then whisked off and hung on a hook in the kitchen. This was only for special company. Otherwise, the apron didn't come off. You'll notice in the picture above that the apron didn't even come off for picture taking.

All the women in my neighborhood where I grew up wore aprons. There was only one woman that I remember who had a job outside the home, but as soon as she was home from work, the apron went on and stayed until bedtime. It was worn for many purposes, but first of all to protect the dresses that the women wore, as they didn't have many hanging in their closets. Mom would put on a clean dress on Monday morning, don a serviceable apron to protect it, do laundry, bake bread for the week, make three meals, wash all the dishes, and was able to wear the same dress the next day. If the apron had done its job well, she might wear it Wednesday. When a dress was especially soiled from work or perspiration she would have to bring out a clean dress the next day, but that wasn't preferable. A clean apron would be worn the next day.

My mother owned very few dresses bought from a store in her lifetime. She made every dress she had whether it be for every day or for Sunday and special occasions. She bought all her material on sale, and she made dresses and aprons from what she had. Seldom did she purchase special material. She used what she found on sale. All my clothes were handmade by her as well, and she had boxes and boxes of patterns and material for her and me. She would use a pattern many times, adjusting here and there, changing a feature to make it look different. She also made all my coats, my pajamas, even hats to match my coats. Making aprons was a necessity that even I was able to help with. Sometimes her pretty aprons were made with smocking along the borders which she or I would do. We embroidered for aprons, and I hemmed many of her creations and did finishing touches. I learned very early in my life to use a needle and thread.

Breakfast was served using the apron. It protected her hands when she poured steaming water from the water kettle into my cup for Ovaltine or the handle on the saucepan that held my morning cocoa. Her apron was her hand towel when she took her hands from the dishpan and laundry water or to remove the flour or lard from her hands when she baked. When she came in from the garden on a warm summer day her apron was full of green beans or sweet peas, and she would grab the chance to sit for just a few moments in front of the television while she snapped the beans and removed the peas from their pods. Another respite that mom took advantage of was peeling potatoes for supper. An apron full of potatoes would be carried in, and peeled potatoes and potato peelings would be returned, the potatoes to be washed and cooked and the peelings to be disposed of.

I remember a story mom often told of peeling potatoes on the front porch of the farm where they lived when she was pregnant with Marvin. She was visiting with my dad as she worked and all at once her baby, which she was getting close to delivering, kicked so hard that half the potatoes in her apron rolled to the floor. She would laugh so hard when she told that story of how she and dad laughed and laughed at the sight of the potatoes rolling off her lap.

On the farm, mom's apron offered many more uses than I had ever witnessed. Mom gathered eggs by using her apron as her basket. She cleaned under the fruit trees and gathered the spoils into her apron to bring into the house. Not much was wasted on the farm ln the 1930s. If the fruit wasn't good enough for the family, it was good enough for the hogs, along with all of the scraps from the kitchen. And her apron wiped down any surface, food or furniture or dirty faces, that needed a quick sprucing up.

Those wonderful pieces of flowered and checked material were adorned with pretty colored rick-rack and basting tape and were the closest place for me to hide, along with mom's skirt tails, when company came to visit. I wouldn't leave my mother's side, but I couldn't let anyone see my face so I would bury it in the folds of her apron. Mom would struggle as politely as possible in front of friends to keep me out of her clothes, but it was a struggle that she would always lose. I was shy beyond imagination.

Her aprons also dried my tears on the many occasions that I would fall when I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, or I pinched my finger in a door, took a tumble while roller skating and learned to ride my bicycle. I had many skinned knees and elbows and many hurt feelings from deserved scoldings that produced tears that were lovingly dried by my mother's skirt tails and aprons.

Today we live in a world of antiseptics and germ-fighting cleaners. Can you imagine the germs that collected in these aprons in the homes of women with many children? Think of the dirty hands and faces, and dare I mention the runny noses that were quickly cleaned up as mom passed by. I certainly remember my nose being wiped, my face spit-shined, my hands cleaned from the jelly sandwiches, and that blessed apron produced no illnesses and kept me as presentable as possible.

It has been suggested that our society should consider returning to the use of aprons, but I can't see that ever happening again. Mothers are finding different ways for satisfaction in our world by going out into the workplace. Some do this out of necessity. Some do it by choice. Being solely a mother seems to have been abandoned by most for different reasons, some of which I don't agree, and all of which is not my business. But I see in this different world of working women a major change in the welfare and behavior of our growing children, and I wonder if this change is robbing them of a childhood of warm and wonderful memories of mom's in the kitchen, baking and cooking and washing and lovingly drying our eyes from our childish tears, all with the wonderful creation of a beautiful handcrafted piece of material we called the apron.

William Dwight Johnson May 21, 1937--June 22, 1943

This story is hard to tell on many levels. It happened in 1943, over four years before I was born, so my information is all second hand. My mother and I spoke about this many, many times. She told me as much as a mother could to a child, and then as I grew older more facts were introduced into our conversations. It is a difficult story; difficult to tell, difficult to hear. As you read, if you can, you will try to imagine how difficult it was to experience, but you won't succeed, for you can not ever imagine.

My parents, Merril and Lucile Johnson lived on a farm somewhere between Stella and Verdon Nebraska. I know approximately where it was, but I could never get my mom to show me exactly. I'm sure she felt I didn't need to know exactly. My brother Marvin was thirteen and my brother Billy (William Dwight) was six. He was born on May 21, same birthday as my mother. Billy was a delightful child, fun and happy with bright red hair like his daddy's. He was tall for his age, but that was normal in a family of very tall people. He loved to help mom around the house, and was always excited to do little chores or run little errands for mom. He was bright and talkative, though I can't help but believe that he would have become quiet and thoughtful in his adulthood as his brother and father were, but carrying along a wonderful sense of humor.

June in Nebraska can be one of the most beautiful times of the year. School has just ended and summer is just getting into full swing. The peonies and iris and tulips are all faded away, the bees are humming and out in the country the meadowlark warbles the most beautiful tune. It was a week before my dad's birthday, and I'm sure Billy had been drawing pictures and writing birthday wishes to present on that day. My dad adored his little men, and red-headed Billy was very special. He had just had his sixth birthday, and another celebration was anticipated.

Billy had spent most of the morning in the house with Marvin who was doing chores and watching over his brother. Mom had been out to the barn and to the chicken house, doing her daily jobs, while Daddy was in the field just beyond the barn, turning the soil with a newly sharpened disc behind a team of work horses. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful setting; a hard-working family on a normal summer day. Rockwell would have painted such a picture.

My mother has said that it was almost noon, and she had gone into the house to wash up and prepare to set dinner on the table. When it had been prepared she had sent Billy out to the field to tell his dad that it was time to eat. He ran out, and he had been gone a while before mom asked Marvin to check on Billy.

From here on I will tell the story according to the different sources. I will begin by quoting a newspaper article from the Falls City Journal which was printed the following day. It is the most factual and laid out in a manner more easily understood.

Falls City Journal, June 23, 1943

"Tragedy Occurs In Verdon Area As Child Killed

Tragedy struck unexpectedly at the Merril Johnson home, three miles north of Verdon, when the father accidentally drove a horse-drawn disk over his six-year-old son, William Dwight Johnson, yesterday afternoon, injuring the boy fatally.

The youngster died shortly after he was brought to Our Lady of Perpetual Help hospital. A sharp, circular blade of the disk ran the full length of the body, cutting through the skull and into the brain.

The child had been riding with his father on the disk in the field. William Dwight got down to go to the house, went a short distance and then decided to come back with his father. Unseen by his father, the boy tried to climb on the moving machine. He slipped and fell under the cutter wheels.

The father was so completely broken up by the accident that he still could hardly give a coherent account of it last night. The boy was taken to Verdon for emergency treatment and then was brought to the hospital here."

My mother's addition to the story begins when she realized the accident and ran into the field. She and Daddy picked Billy up together and rushed to their car where Mom sat in the back seat with Billy laying on the seat and his severed head cradled in her lap and hands. My mother has told me that she was literally holding his head together.

My dad drove like a crazy man and as fast as he could on the dirty, dusty roads toward Verdon to seek help. Somewhere along the way I believe I was told that they may have stopped to use someone's telephone, but were unable to find one.

Marvin told me that he looked out the kitchen window to try to catch sight of Billy to see if they were on their way in to eat. The event took place right before his eyes. He saw Billy get down from the disc, run toward the house, then turn around to run back to dad. Marvin saw Billy start to climb up to Dad and fall backward under the disc. At that point he yelled to Mom and she ran out of the house. Marvin rode in the front seat with Daddy on the way to the hospital.

A story was written to me years later from Dorothy Helmick, a cousin of Daddy's, long after his death, and she also sent me a copy of the item that was published in the Journal. In her letter to me she stated that only hours after Billy was pronounced dead she saw that my Mom, Dad and Marvin were staying at a house across the street from her in Falls City. There lived my Aunt Leora and Uncle Jack and family. Aunt Leora was my Mom's sister. Dorothy wrote that she watched helplessly from the front of her home as my Daddy walked for hours around and around the block wailing; unconsolable. This went on into the evening hours; no one could stop him, no one could talk to him. She thought sure that he was going insane, because he just could not stop. His cries were heard all over the neighborhood, and he was oblivious to his surroundings. With both fists jammed into his overall pockets he walked and walked and wailed.

My Mom was able to somehow handle her grief with a true and deep faith in her dependable God. One day came when she was able to laugh and sing again. In 1945 she gave birth to a little girl who lived only three days due to an illness that Mom had when she was born. There were more tears. But God gives us a strength we can't imagine that helps us and carries us on.

Daddy chose to blame God for Billy's death, and never attended church regularly again. He was angry at God, a personal anger, almost as if God had done this to Merril Johnson for a reason. He always made sure Mom went to church, and when I came along in 1947 he was insistant that I was to attend church, but he never went with us. Dad attended funerals, weddings, and sunrise services if they were held outside. Never did he attend a church worship service.

Growing up my Mom and I spent many long hours in the middle of the night consoling my Dad from a terrible nightmare. We never asked, but we knew what his nightmares were about. From across the house I would hear my Dad scream hysterically and I would jump from my bed and find him in my mother's arms sobbing. She and I would surround him with our arms and rock him until he would be calm enough to sleep again....sometimes an hour, sometimes we didn't get back to sleep. This went on for the rest of his life.

In 1967 my Daddy lay dying with cancer in a hospital bed when another of his cousins visited him. He had only days to live. They asked him if he would like to confess his sins and ask Jesus to forgive him. He said yes, and so they prayed for him, and he nodded as they prayed. I hope to see my Daddy again someday where there will be no more tears, no more nightmares that haunt you, and see my beloved family, my Mama, my brother Marvin, my sweet brother Billy, and the sister that I always wanted but never knew, Janice May.

BI-CENTENNIAL 1976

In 1975 my mom began to get excited about the coming year of celebrating the two hundredth birthday of our country. Mom loved making things for her grandchildren, a pleasure that I also enjoy. Buying a gift for someone is a great treat, but when you have the ability to make something that they will able to keep as a reminder of your love for them, it gives you a special joy. Mom began to plan special gifts for John, Jay and Jill for Christmas presents that would also reflect the bi-centennial occasion.

Lucile Johnson liked surprises, especially when she was the one doing the surprising. She loved having secrets. She would let you know she had a secret, then her eyes would sparkle and her smile lit up her face. Mom was playful and lots of fun, liked to tease and liked to laugh. She had had a tough life of hard work and heartaches, huge losses and not much material worth. But she and my dad laughed together in spite of their troubles.

I caused many disappointments and heartaches for my mother. Once I hurt her feelings unintentionally, but I learned from it and remembered the lesson in later years when my children did or said similar things. Mom surprised us with a visit in May one year to help Grampy and I celebrate our wedding anniversary. We'd only been married a couple of years, and she knew that there were some items needed in the kitchen. Ron was also aware of our needs and had purchased a pretty gold set of pots and pans with Teflon lining inside. It wasn't an expensive set, but we were glad to have it and, as I said, they were pretty.

Mom came bearing gifts as well, and when we opened the large gift that she brought in we discovered a beautiful stainless steel set of pots and pans. What a lovely gift! Except that we had just purchased a set, and my big mistake was to tell her so. Her smile left her face, and she began to replace the pots and pans into the box as they had been packed. I told her that I was so sorry that I hadn't mentioned our purchase, and she said that it was no problem, because she needed new pots and pans anyway and would just keep them for herself. She was so kind and sweet about it, but her disappointment was heartbreaking. Once again I had said something that I would have given anything to have never said. Having two brand new sets of cooking ware wasn't unheard of, if I had only thought before I spoke. I didn't realize until many years later the depth of the hurt of disappointment when your gift is not accepted well. And I had been a very ungrateful daughter.

Her talent of sewing and crocheting was the gift that she used many times for me and for my children, and I was not always the grateful recipient that I should have been if I wasn't totally pleased with what she had made. For the bi-centennial she decided to crochet afghans for her grandchildren. John and Jay received red-white-and blue striped afghans, and for Jill she made a granny square blanket in dark blue and variegated colors. I'm happy to say that the kids loved their gifts and used them for years. I don't know what happened to John's and Jill's, but in his adulthood Jay still has and uses his blanket, and treasures it because of who made it for him. This is not to say that the other two didn't treasure theirs, I just don't know what happened to them.

Children, if you can learn from this story then I will be so pleased. Youth is no excuse for some of the things we do or say, but it is true that much wisdom comes with age, and sometimes we cannot conceive how our flippant words can hurt another. You will do it at times in your life, and you must sincerely apologize, accept forgiveness, then forgive yourselves. But try to remember to guard your tongue so you'll not have regrets.

Now, one more thing. As I write this little story I am sixty-two years of age. When this event took place I was not yet thirty because Mom died when I was thirty. When she died I took the cook ware home and incorporated it into our kitchen, and to this very day I am still using that stainless steel set; I used one of the pots to cook supper tonight, and they look almost as good as the day she bought them. As for the pretty gold set that we purchased, well, they became ugly and worn and bent and had to be thrown away years ago. That is, except for one pan that I use only when I make those delicious no-bake chocolate cookies. They turn out the best in that pan, even though the Teflon was worn away long ago. I must be sure to tell her this when I meet her again in heaven.

What do you suppose happened to all that Teflon that lined that pan?

MY MOM (part one)

I can't remember one day of my childhood that I woke up not hearing my mother singing. If there was ever a person who had earned the right to be bitter with life and unhappy, it was Lucile Johnson. But she would never allow bitterness in. I really don't think she was ever unhappy. Her view of life was so positive, and she was so full of the joy of the Lord that she just couldn't be unhappy. And I believe she had learned very early in her life to be content with what she had.

Another thing I remember about my mother was that she laughed at everything. If something bad happened, she laughed. If she was sad, she found a reason to laugh. Sometimes her laughter would annoy me, and I would snap at her, "Mom! It's not funny!" To this she would say, "I have to laugh, Honey. If I didn't laugh I would have to cry, and I don't want to cry. There are already too many tears in this world." Of course, this just annoyed me more because I didn't understand yet. A child doesn't normally endure enough suffering in its life to really understand what she meant. As an adult, and as a mother, I learned, though my suffering was mostly self-inflicted. Hers wasn't.

So, singing and laughter were constant in my home as I grew up. My parents almost never fought, and if they did, it certainly wasn't in front of me. I do remember one morning when I was about five that I woke up to find my mom sitting at the breakfast table crying. When I asked her why she was crying she said there was no reason and that everything was fine. I knew that my dad had just left for work, so I believed it had something to do with him. Soon she was singing, and my world continued on tranquilly, though I never forgot that morning. I imagine that I remember it because it had never happened before. 

There is only one other time that I found my mom crying because of my dad. That was many years later when I was in my late teens, and I knew exactly why she was crying. Actually, my mom and dad got along very well. The reason for that is that my mother did everything to please him. She never argued; she never nagged; she never did anything contrary to what he wanted, so there was never any reason for them to not get along. I know that she didn't agree with him on all subjects, but no one ever knew it. I never knew until after my dad died, and she and I would talk for long hours about so many things. There is so much that a child can't understand, and shouldn't have to understand. The emotions that come with the truth is hard enough for an adult to deal with; it can destroy a child.

There are so many wonderful memories from my childhood of my mom and dad. One of the best ones is being in my bed at night. Just around the corner from my bed was the front door leading out onto a big front porch. There mom and dad would sit for hours at night talking and laughing. Sometimes he would sing to her, and sometimes they would sing together. Sometimes he would play his harmonica and she would sing, or she would just listen as he played. I remember feeling so happy. They made me feel so secure in my world.

Mom told me a story once about a time when she was in the hospital and daddy was there visiting her. They would spend the whole time together talking and laughing so much that a couple of the nurses came in. They asked mom and dad how long they had been married, and the answer was something like twenty years. The nurses were so surprised because they couldn't imagine what a couple that had been together for so long could have to talk about. But that was the way they both were. Daddy wasn't always in a happy mood, except when he was with mom. It was as if when he was with her everything was right. She was very good for a man with red hair and a hot temper to go with it. She could calm him with her gentleness. There was never a lot of touchy, huggy, kissy stuff going on between them. Just a deep devotion and love that anyone could see.

They did lots of social things when I was very young. There were card parties at the house or at some friends' homes. There were some kind of Lodge parties that we would go to. My dad was a Mason, so maybe these parties had something to do with that. I don't remember. I was never left behind when they socialized. I would either play with other children, or I would play by myself and eventually go to sleep. The next thing I would remember would be daddy lifting me out of the car and carrying me into the house. I love that memory. How can such a simple act be such a splendid memory? Mom's back was bad, so she could never lift me.

Mom spent most of the time in the kitchen. She baked a lot, and, of course, meals were always cooked from scratch. There was not much canned foods in our pantry unless she had grown it and canned it herself. I don't think she let me help her very much, but I always got to lick the bowls and the beaters. When she peeled potatoes I would beg for a slice of raw potato, and when she made the very best lemon meringue pie in the whole world, bar none, I would always get the lemon rinds with the insides sprinkled with a little sugar. She was a very good cook and was especially good at baking pies and cookies and cobblers. She baked cakes from scratch. No mixes. But she always had trouble with cakes falling in the oven or being heavy. I still liked them. But daddy would always tease her about her cakes. She would cut him a piece of cake, and he would say, "Be careful! Don't drop that! It'll put a hole in the floor."

Every Monday morning I would awaken to the sound of my mom singing some hymn or singing along with the radio, the smell of bread being made, and the sound of the wringer washing machine churning away at our clothes. By the end of the day we would have wonderful loaves of bread, a couple dozen hamburger buns, and the very best cinnamon rolls you ever tasted. They were even better than her pies. In fact, there were people who would pay mom to make pans of cinnamon rolls for them. All the clothes would be washed, hung outside to dry, and folded into clothes baskets for ironing on Tuesday. The bread was made, the clothes were clean, the tubs all emptied of water, and mom was still singing. Maybe she wasn't singing as loud as she was in the morning, but she was still singing. In the midst of all this she made three meals and washed all the dishes by hand. Breakfast was always cooked cereal, bacon and eggs, pancakes, or waffles. Dad and I both came home for dinner (lunch), and it was always ready and hot when we walked in. Supper was the biggest meal. On Mondays mom's day was long, usually ending at about nine in the evening. At this point she could sit down. The television was on all day for company, but she never sat down to watch it.

To this day, I have found only one person who makes cinnamon rolls like my mom made them, nor as good. I never got her recipe, but one person did. Vicki Beckner was a good friend of mine who was also very close to my mom, and she was fortunate enough to get it and makes them to this day. I give Vicki a bad time about not sharing the recipe with me, and I think I've just about worn her down about letting me have it. But Vicki is the baker, not me. I actually would want it for my daughter who is an excellent baker just like her grandmother.

In the summer there was no air-conditioning to keep her cool, only a window fan. In winter she hung the clothes outside in the freezing cold and the clothes would "freeze-dry". Mom's fingers would freeze along with them. If it was raining, the clothes were hung on racks to dry in the dining room where the only heat in the house was. Nothing stood in the way of wash day. And there was never one word of complaining or moaning. She never asked for an automatic washer or dryer. She was happy to have what she had.

Tuesday morning started just like every other morning, at about 4:30. Again I would awaken to my mom's voice singing "He Lives" or "In the Garden" or maybe some Eddie Arnold song on the radio. Mom always called Eddie Arnold her boyfriend. She loved his music. Others that she liked were, Jim Reeves ("He'll Have To Go"), Bing Crosby, Doris Day, Patti Page and Perry Como. One of mom's favorite songs was "Tennessee Waltz" by Patti Page. After breakfast was finished and the dishes washed the ironing board went up, and most of the rest of the day was spent ironing all the clothes from the day before as she watched her soap operas and Art Linkletter and all the game shows. Oh, and I forgot to mention that before the clothes were ironed, each one was sprinkled with water and rolled up so they would be easier to iron. If they weren't wet enough when she ironed them she sprinkled them again. 

The sprinkler was an old Big Chief pop bottle with a sprinkler head on it that daddy had made for her. When I came home from school I was allowed to help her iron. I loved to iron. I got to iron all the handkerchiefs, there were 25-30 of them, all the pillow cases and some of the sheets. These were all ironed in those days, but I couldn't always handle the sheets. They were too big. By the time I grew enough to be able to handle them I didn't like to iron anymore. When I was ten or so I started learning to iron my blouses and skirts. They weren't too hard. But ironing dad's clothes were tough, and I didn't normally get in on that. All of his shirts were long sleeve, winter and summer, and they had to be ironed. Dad's work pants were dried with pants pressers in them. These were metal frames shaped like the pant leg and stretched inside the pant leg to make them dry without wrinkles and with a straight crease down the front and back. These were wonderful time savers for my mom so that she wouldn't have to iron them. Once in a while I see pants pressers hanging in antique stores. They bring back good memories. Oh, and dad's underwear? They were ironed too.

My First Surgery

When I was eleven years old I had my tonsils removed. This was a relatively simple procedure that was done a lot in the fifties, and many of my friends had had it done, so I was confident that I had nothing to fear. Over the span of about two years I had missed a lot of school because of tonsillitis and strep-throat, so finally my doctor advised my parents that removing my tonsils would be the only solution.

I remember some of the medications that I took for my throat problems. At the first sign of a sore throat my mother would drag out the Vicks Vaporub, a couple of old rags, lemon juice, honey, black tea, and the Bayer Aspirin, and she would set out to save money and cure me with her home remedies. I was ordered to bed with a cup of hot steaming concoction that was the most awful tasting drink I think I have ever tasted. It was hot tea, and this is where the honey and lemon juice went, into the tea. I think this was supposed to wash the ugly stuff from my throat, but all it really did was make me gag and throw up. Mom would enter my room periodically to make sure I was drinking, but what she found would be a full cup of tepid liquid. The longer I put off drinking it the colder the tea would become. And the colder the tea would become the nastier it tasted. My mother didn't give up easily, but neither did I. I was prepared to die before I would drink that stuff.

Next came the neck wrap. I was slathered up and down my chest and all around my neck with Vicks. Then she would wind the folded rag around my neck and tie it in the back, or she would use a large safety pin to secure it. The purpose of this was to keep the greasy stuff from getting everywhere; on my bed, on my clothes, and especially out of my hair. It didn't work. It just made me stink. The Vicks was also applied to the space between my mouth and nose so to inhale the menthol and clear my head. When I tried to sleep I would turn constantly trying to find a comfortable position, but each time I turned the rag on my neck would move until it would be so dislodged or so tight around my neck that I would scream out with the discomfort. Mom would come in to straighten the neck piece and order me to take a drink of the tea from hell. Actually, the thought of having surgery and someone cutting inside my throat with a sharp knife sounded like heaven compared with the suffering at my mother's hand. Bring it on!

When my mother's torture didn't work I would be taken to the doctor who would send me home with sulfur tablets or even better sulfur gum. These were little mint green pellets that I chewed, and they didn't taste too bad. Other times I would have to have a shot of penicillin. I didn't really mind shots then, and I still have no problem with nurses coming at me with long needles. But I always wanted the shot in my arm. I wasn't presenting my bare butt to the doctor or anybody else.

I need to tell you a little bit about my doctor who delivered me when I was born and attended me until I was at least sixteen. His name was Dr. Stappenback. I used to know his first name, but that has left my memory. He had been our family doctor since Marvin was small, and he and my parents were very good friends. I both loved and loathed visiting his office.

The waiting room was a large, square room with wainscoting surrounding, and with at least twenty straight backed chairs lining the walls. There was a desk as you entered the door, but seldom was there a nurse seated. Above the wainscoting were some pictures and plaques, but what I remember specifically was a US flag (with 48 stars) and a framed picture of President Dwight Eisenhauer and one of Vice President Richard Nixon. Windows were placed along the top of the wall on three sides of the room, and outside were large trees lining the street of Humboldt, Nebraska. This doctor's office originally was a large, beautiful, two-story home with a large porch wrapped along the front and side.

Doctor had a large office with a huge bay window covered with venetian blinds. His office was also his examining room, his storage room, with his file cabinets and best of all his gigantic fish aquarium. It was taller than I was. It was longer than I was tall. It was about 3 feet from the wall, and it held more fish than I could ever count. I know, because I tried many times. The colors of the fish and the contents of the aquarium were mesmerizing for me, and I could have stayed there forever to watch it all.

It all came to a crashing halt when tall, scruffy-looking, Dr. Stappenback walked into the room. He smelled of rubbing alcohol and all kinds of medicine smells, and he had cauliflower ears. I don't think my eyes ever left his ears when I visited him. They terrified me. I was sure he had some communicable disease or leprosy, or something quite hideous. He adored me, and I could never understand why, as I was terrified of him. I wouldn't talk to him. I wouldn't do anything he asked me to do. I was sullen and pouty beyond anything I would have tolerated in my own children. Dr. Stappenback always told me that I no doubt would drown in a rain storm because my nose was stuck so high in the air. Or he would say that a rooster was going to perch on my lower lip and peck off my nose. I must have secretly liked him, but it took me years to get over my fear of him.

Dr. Stappenback came into my hospital room before my tonsillectomy to assure my mom and I that everything was ready to go, and that I was going to be just fine. I wasn't taking any chances. Tucked into the palm of my hand I tightly squeezed my furry, red rabbit's foot. They would never get me in that room without it.

The hospital was a large three story brick building, and I think the first floor was just for the crazy people; you know, the psych ward. The operating room was just another room on my floor and situated just a few feet away from my room. I walked in, climbed up on the hard table, and after talking for a few minutes with the doctor and his one nurse, they began to put me to sleep with ether while I counted backward from 100. I don't remember 97.

I'm told by my mother that Dr. Stappenback knew all along that I had my rabbit's foot in my hand, but he waited until after I was asleep to pry it out. They would never allow that today.

I awoke in my room with a very sore throat and my mother sitting at my side singing softly. The nurses were in and out constantly and I was allowed as much ice cream as I wanted. I don't remember seeing the doctor until a few weeks later when we had to visit for a follow-up of the surgery. But that was a blissful time of recuperation when I wasn't allowed to go to school for two weeks and ate ice cream day and night. I remember my teacher coming to the house with my homework and missed assignments, and I would lay on the sofa and watch soap operas and do arithmetic and spelling words.

I didn't get sick much after that, and my school attendance was regular again. I loved school, and I hated to miss because of the make-up work that you had to do. I was a good student, and I loved being in the classroom.

There is something that you will never find in my house today. It is Vicks Vaporub, though I do use, and like the smell of, Mentholatum. I used the Vicks on my children when they were sick with colds, and I think John still uses it frequently for a cold. I seldom have a cold, and when I do, there is no tea, no Vicks, and no neck rags to twist around my throat. If orange juice and vitamins won't cure it, I'm off to the doctor; the one without cauliflower ears.

A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND

Christmastime when you're five years old can be one of the most exciting times of the year. I lived in a home of limited finances, so my expectations were limited to a doll or a tea set. I really don't remember having a wish list at all. Christmas excitement in our house consisted of learning the songs for the children's Christmas program at the Methodist church we attended, and my mom coaching me in all the things I must not do when I stood on the stage with my friends. First, and most important, was to make sure that I didn't pick up my dress skirt to hide my face from all the people. Mom knew that being on display in front of a congregation of people would terrify me, and not having my mother to hide behind, the first thing I would reach for would be my dress. But all the coaching in the world never stopped my actions, and I'm not sure which was stronger for my mother, the embarrassment or the disgust in her failure.

But Christmases in my early years will always have special memories because of my brother, Marvin, who made sure that I received some of the wonderful gifts that a child should have but had parents that couldn't afford them. He was my Santa Claus.

Marvin was eighteen and a senior at Stella High School in Stella, Nebraska, when I was born. He was tall, athletic, smart, and handsome, and he was very popular with his classmates. My guess is that he was the nicest person in his class, but I say that only because Marvin was one of the nicest people I've ever known, and he was considered thus all of his life by all who knew him. After graduation he left for Peru States Teachers College, and then did a stint as a medic in the Korean War. He decided, then, to settle in Wichita, Kansas, where he began to build his life, and from where he never felt a reason to leave until his death.

Marvin worked at a service station and also joined a fire department, so he was equipped monetarily to give his little sister some of the things he knew she would love. I remember a huge Red Rider wagon with removable sides. I remember a talking doll that also walked. I think the same year she came with a boy doll. Both were almost half as tall as I was, and I enjoyed them for many years. But the Christmas I was five was the year I received from my brother the item that would be my constant companion for many years. That was the year I received my 26-inch sky blue Schwinn bicycle.

My new bicycle had a metal basket attached to the handlebars so I could carry my books to school. It had a long, flat, blue seat attached to the back fender to give a friend a ride with footrests so they wouldn't get their feet caught in the spokes. It had long, blue and white plastic streamers coming out from the handlebars that waved in the wind. There were training wheels to break in the new rider. The chain guard on the side had great big proud letters that read SCHWINN. This was no ordinary "Ford" model. This was the "Cadillac" of bicycles. And it was mine.

It took a few skinned knees, some scraped elbows and hands, but soon I was wobbling up and down the sidewalk without training wheels and without anyone holding on to the back of my black bicycle seat. I rode from corner to corner on that block, and sometimes I was allowed to turn the corner and ride up to the corner grocery in our neighborhood to buy a pack of cigarettes for my dad, or some eggs for my mom (remember, I had a basket to carry them in), or even a 5-cent popsicle that I would break in half and share with a friend.

After we moved to Falls City and I was a couple of years older, I was allowed to ride in the streets, and best of all, I was allowed the freedom of riding as far away as I liked, as long as I was home at a certain time. Just over the hill from our house the town stopped and a country road began, and sometimes my friend Harriett and I would ride out for ten or fifteen minutes. We would park our bikes along the side of the road, and we would lay on our backs in the grass and watch the clouds form and re-form into dozens of recognizable shapes. Those were wonderful times.

My dad owned a service station for a few years and in the summertime mom would make his lunch and I would take it to him on my bike. The station was at least twelve blocks away from the house, which was by the way, half-way across the town, and I would spend a hour or two hanging out with him, eating sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and drinking Big Chief orange pop or Dr. Pepper from the pop machine. I watched as he fixed flat tires and changed the oil on cars. I walked out with him when he pumped gas for his buddies that drove in, and he would always introduce me to them. He would always say, "This is my daughter, Tootsie." I really don't remember him ever calling me by my real name.

My grade school was on the opposite end of town, yet I didn't live far enough to qualify for riding the school bus, so it wasn't long before I was allowed to ride my bike to school. The trip to school included a lot of gentle uphill rides, but coming home was fast and glorious. Coasting along a five or six block stretch on a bicycle is just pure heaven. Of course, much of that I rode with no hands on the handlebars, which is almost the closest thing there is to flying. And even in the summertime I would ride over to the school to play on the playground with friends, or to visit some of my friends that lived close to the school.

By the time I was ten to twelve years old I was allowed the freedom to ride for as far and as long as I wished. I was expected home for lunch and dinner, but meanwhile I explored the town, with or without a friend at my side. I visited the city park and the ball games that were being played. I would stop in at the car parts store where my dad worked just to say "hi" and hope he was feeling generous enough to throw a dime or a quarter my way. One dime would buy a bottle of pop, and I would turn in the bottle for 2 cents. There were many days that I rode just for the sake of riding and feeling free. If I had nowhere to go, that was fine. I enjoyed seeing my town from the comfort of my bicycle seat.

My heart aches for children in today's world. They have been robbed of the freedoms that I enjoyed as a child. Today's biker must wear a helmet, knee pads, and is rarely allowed to ride more than a block away from home. Many people today leave the small towns behind to search for wonderful opportunities in the big city, but when they do they leave behind many of simple freedoms that make life so exciting and comfortable and peaceful in a small community where there is friendliness and trust.

I am so grateful to my big brother for all the wonderful memories he gave me, but I believe the material gift that I am most grateful for is my sky blue Schwinn bicycle that he gave me for my fifth Christmas. It was joy, freedom, and a young girl's transportation all wrapped up in blue metal.

At the age of fourteen I was asked to pass on my bicycle to my brother's daughter, Jana, who would soon be ready to have a bicycle of her own. I had taken extreme care to keep my bike in good shape, and I am very proud to announce to you that even though I had ridden it for years, it was almost like new when I gave it to her. Of course, I had taken some falls, but none that damaged my bike; only damaged my ego, or my knees. I'm not sure, but I wonder if this fact reflects the love and respect that I had for my brother. I only know that I will be eternally grateful for his generosity.

MY HERO

I grew up in the mid-twentieth century when it was reported that families usually consisted of two parents and two-and-a-half children. I've never understood what happened to that other half child, so I've just always considered the number should be three and leave it at that.

Three is a good number for children unless they are all of the same gender. Then I believe it is very difficult for a mother to cope. Consider three girls. They are pouty, giggly, demanding, prissy, selfish, self-centered, shrieking, need constant hair-brushing and dressing. Now consider three boys who are loud, obnoxious, dirty, messy, nose running, bug-crazy, joke-playing, evasive, child-like until they die, making strange noises with odd smells, and are uncommunicative throughout it all. Just the thought of it is exhausting!

But when a mother has some of both sexes there is diversity and balance; getting a little bit of everything, and not an over-abundance of anything. That is until they are teenagers. Then, the only thing a mother can do for self-preservation is leave home.

This is all to say that I grew up in a home that was not average. I was not an only child, but I grew up as one. My brother was 18 when I was born in November, and in spring he left for college and then on to the Army. Over the years I wrote to him every week and kept in touch as you would with an uncle or older cousin. He came home for holidays, but our acquaintance was always long-distance. This didn't thwart the growth of my admiration or regard for him. My brother meant everything to me.

Stella High School 1948

I'm sure that never living under the same roof together was most helpful in keeping our relationship amicable. My brother and I saw each other two or three times a year. His life after the army was four hundred miles south of Falls City, in Wichita, Kansas. He would make trips to visit us, or Mom and I would travel by bus to spend a few days with him in his one room apartment.

Marvin Dean Johnson was born March 13, 1930, at a farmhouse outside of Stella, Nebraska, and spent most of his childhood as a farmer's son. Marvin worked hard on the farm, and was an excellent student in school. He was admired by his fellow students and his teachers alike. There was never a reason for his parents to worry about his behavior or progress in school, for he devoted himself to his work and his family. Marvin would carry these characteristics throughout his life.

The things that I know about my brother as a child come from many conversations with my mother. I was curious to learn about this man, and she was most willing to share her mother's thoughts about her only living son. There had been many years of life in my family that I had not experienced, so I had a lot of catching up to do. My mother and father had placed my brother and his behavior on a very high plane, and I was most anxious to hear all the reasons why, and I was also most honored to keep him there. There was never a bad report, and I was pleased to realize that I most assuredly had the most wonderful brother in the whole world. My assessment never changed over the years. Indeed, he was truly the best.

This is a fact that I love to tell people, and I often wonder if anyone believes me when I say it. My brother and I in our sixty years together on this earth never had an argument. We never even spoke a cross word to one another, not that I didn't deserve to be crossly spoken to. The only time I remember Marvin speaking to me in an unpleased way was once at a small cafe close to where he lived at the time. I was six or seven, and, as usual, I wasn't eating what was on my plate. Marvin's voice got very quiet and very deep when he looked at me sternly and said, "Clean up your plate." You'll realize the effect that had on me when you note that I have never forgotten that moment. I'm pretty sure he learned that from my dad, and the effect was the same. But I was not afraid of my brother. There was no reason to think other than the fact that I was disappointing him, and I would rather eat spinach that do that.

Waxahatchie Texas, @ Grandma Campbell's

In later years I once wrote something to my brother and his wife that was misunderstood by them, and I received a very stern letter from Janet wondering why I would speak so to them. I have no idea what I said, but I know it was never meant to offend. I was stricken to think that I had hurt my brother, and did what needed to be done to correct the matter. Marvin never mentioned it to me, but Janet sure let me know they weren't pleased.

Marvin also never spoke to me about the many years I lived in a manner that not only hurt my family, but I know must have embarrassed them. I couldn't have been an easy person to love, but he never criticized me, nor did he even mention that he was displeased, though I know that he was deeply hurt. I am so very thankful that I was not only able, through the grace of Jesus Christ, to straighten out my life, but I also had opportunities to apologize to Marvin both privately and publicly. The last time I spent some time with him I told him again how sorry I was for those years. I also was able to tell him how deeply I loved and admired him. Marvin was my hero, and I told him so. My brother and my mother were the two people in my life that I knew would always be there for me, would never disappoint me, would always love me, no matter what, and they were exactly the kind of people that I would strive my whole life to be like. The adoration, respect, and love I have for my brother far exceeds anything I have felt for any other person in my lifetime. And, make no mistake, I have no delusional thoughts that I will ever be like him. But I will try.

A number of men spoke to me at Marvin's funeral about the love and respect they had for him. But one man's testimony sticks in my mind. This man had worked at the fire department where my brother was captain for many years. His words were very similar to these, "I wanted to meet the sister of the man that I loved and thought so much of. Your brother was the kindest man I have ever known. When he gave us an order at the station, we didn't obey him because we had to. We obeyed him because of the respect and love we had for him. We would have done anything for him." There were more admiring words from those firemen, and from all who had had the privilege to know Marvin. What a privilege I had to call him my brother. Oh, that I could have made him as proud of me as I am of him.

Marvin's granddaughter, Katie. early 2000s

Marvin and I took a day trip to Canton, Ohio, one day, and in our visit I asked him if he was ready to die. I asked him if he had accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior, and he said confidently that he had. I know that I will be seeing him again, and we will be spending eternity together in our new home.

Marvin's funeral was the most spectacular one I have ever attended. He would have been so proud, but I think it would have embarrassed him as well. The testimonies of his life were remarkable. Though I can't remember what he said, I remember the minister remarking of Marvin's goodness and kindness, and his devotion to the church. Marvin's body and casket were driven to the cemetery in an old firetruck that was restored to mint condition by some of the firemen that he served with. There was an honor guard to deliver him to the grave site and to send him off in great honor with a twenty-one gun salute. And at the end, a bagpiper walked the surrounding grounds of the grave site and played Amazing Grace. A very deserved send-off for a man of equally deserved honor.

If you did not know this man, you might have trouble believing this story; that such a man should have ever been. But, I can assure you that such a man did exist. Especially through the eyes of a devoted and loving sister. Marvin Johnson is truly the best man I have ever known.