PEEWEE, A VERY CRAZY BIRD

There are many people in this world who make our days fun and different and exciting. I enjoy people, some people, and I especially enjoy those who make the days fun and interesting. If the truth be known, I really prefer dogs to people because they are so devoted and loyal, so full of love for their master, and never have a bad word to say to you. But this story tells of a creature that, at one time, made my life fun and different and enjoyable. This is a story about a real birdbrain, if I may say so. It's about PeeWee the parakeet, and how a little animal can make life exciting and fun.

PeeWee came to our house when I was about three years old. My first memory of him is being in his cage that Mom had placed in the bathroom window. This observation point was perfect for him. One direction faced directly into the backyard where he could commune with the outside birds and dream of freedom. With the window open anyone in the yard working could talk to him. The opposite direction allowed him to view straight through the dining room and living room to the front door. The only place he couldn't see you was in the kitchen or bedrooms. PeeWee had a great setting, a great imagination, a great personality, and a very ornery streak.

Our first attempt to train PeeWee was to teach him to talk. It took very little time before we heard the results of our efforts. Dad worked in the backyard a lot, and so he would pass the window and stop to say hello. "Hello, PeeWee." he would say over and over. "PeeWee's a pretty bird." This sentence was repeated continually by my whole family. And soon he was saying it himself. Then he began to say things that we weren't trying to teach him. The dining room was just a few feet away and soon he was heard to say, "Shirley. Clean up your plate. Shirley. Clean up your plate."


I'm not sure why we named him PeeWee, other than his size. Most of the time mom and dad were trying to get him to say "Liberace", the name of a famous piano player at the time. Mom would say, "Call me Liberace." But the whole sentence never came. He would say "Liberace" and then laugh, "yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk", which sometimes sounded like my mother and other times more like my dad. PeeWee laughed constantly, and always sounding like one of them. What was so unnerving was that he had the ability to understand what he was laughing at. If mom made a mistake in the kitchen she would say, "Oh, rats!" Immediately PeeWee would say, "Oh, rats!" And then he would laugh. My dad would tell us a joke, and PeeWee would laugh. He would say, "That's a good one, yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk."


PeeWee was allowed to roam the house on most days. We never clipped his wings, so he had full power to fly where he wished. Sometimes he would fly around from window to window, stretching his wings and laughing. He might stop long enough to look around and say "PeeWee's a pretty bird." Then he would fly some more. He especially liked hanging out in whatever room mom was, sitting on the window curtain or on her shoulder. He couldn't stay on her shoulder for long because she was always moving around, so he had to find a station for observation. Mom sang continually, and he loved this, so he listened and sometimes he would repeat a word. More often he would just chatter along in his bird chatter. He stopped when she stopped, and he chattered as she sang.

When we moved to Falls City PeeWee's cage no longer had such good views, so mom would take him in his cage to sit on the porch or hang on the clothesline. Here PeeWee chattered and whistled and talked all day long to his feathered friends. We had to watch for cats, but PeeWee warned us if one came into the yard with such shrieking and fluttering that we knew to hurry out to save him from someones lunch, though they couldn't have gotten to him in his cage. We brought him in nonetheless.

More about outdoors later. I told you that he was ornery, and so I must explain some of the antics we had to tolerate. PeeWee loved butter. We learned to keep a lid on the butter dish or we would find little peck marks all the way around the edge. He loved to chew on the curtain tops as he perched. Mom continually had to either chase him off or replace the lace curtains. The curtains didn't get replaced until they were totally ragged along the top from one side to the other. You could hear him chewing, and then he would laugh, because he knew he wasn't suppose to be doing it. Often those curtains had to be washed....bird poop, you know.

PeeWee loved to tease and play with my mother. He would dive-bomb her head while she was cooking, grabbing at a strand of hair as he passed. Then he would sit up on the curtain and laugh before he went back for more. He would talk to her, then dive at her head and perch and laugh. But one day PeeWee went just a little too far. My mom was making a big pot of vegetable soup and as she stood at the stove stirring and singing PeeWee decided he wanted to play dive and scoop. Mom heard him flying toward her and ducked, and PeeWee flew into the back of the stove, knocking him senseless, and falling directly into the boiling pot of homemade vegetable soup. Mom screamed, grabbed a large spoon and dove in after him. She wrapped him in a towel and went to the sink to put him in cool water. We almost had parakeet for dinner that night, but mom was quick enough to save our poor little baby. After he was calm and shivering and wrapped into a soft clean tea towel we were astonished to see a totally naked bird. PeeWee had not one feather left on his body. The boiling soup had completely stripped him, and he was the most pathetic sight you would ever see.

He couldn't eat; he couldn't drink. Mom nursed him back to health over the next few weeks with an eyedropper, making sure he drank plenty of water. Eventually he began to have a little fuzz on his body, then feathers. He began to eat a little lettuce as mom held it for him, then some bird seed. It took weeks, but he was nursed back to health, just as pretty as ever, just as ornery as ever, and with just as good a vocabulary.

PeeWee spent most evenings on my shoulder sleeping until it was time for bed. He cuddled into my neck as far as he could, snuggled his head under my chin or into his feathers, hunkered down, and there he stayed. Oh how I loved this bird. He was warm and funny and sweet. On really cold nights PeeWee would crawl into the front of my blouse and nestle on my chest to sleep. While he was awake and sitting on my shoulder he would talk and tell me how pretty he was, and how dirty. "PeeWee's a dirty bird. yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk." "Well, I'll be a dirty bird." We taught him to say this because it was a famous saying by George Gobel, a famous TV comedian. "Look out, PeeWee! Look out, PeeWee! yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk." "Gimme a kiss. Come on. Gimme a kiss." Then he would scoot over to my cheek and kiss me. He did this to mom, as well, but for some reason he never asked dad for a kiss. He would sit on his shoulder, but never ask for a kiss. He also kissed mom and I on the lips, and he was very gentle about it. PeeWee almost never bit, but I remember a couple of times when he got mad and bit me if I put my thumb on his feet to keep him from flying. Dad or mom would be going out the door and I didn't want him to fly out with them.

One summer day mom took PeeWee in his cage outside to clean it. PeeWee's cage was shaped as a rectangle, which made it easier for him to sit on the top and move around. It also makes it easier to hang bells and treats on the inside, and it is bigger than most cages. As mom pulled the sliding floor out the paper on it caught about halfway, and it tilted the cage just enough for a frightened bird to fly out and right on up into the apple tree. Mom called and called. PeeWee laughed and laughed. He talked and whistled to the birds, and when mom called him he laughed. This went on for hours. I called. PeeWee laughed. I tried to climb the tree, but he was so high up that I couldn't get to him. And he laughed. Mom and I were both frantic, but he just wouldn't fly down. Hours passed and then we didn't hear him anymore. He had flown away, and I cried myself to sleep that night. There could never be another bird like him, and my heart was broken.

After a week of calling and watching I finally gave up and realized that I was not going to see PeeWee ever again. By this time I was sure he was dead from exposure and not eating or drinking. But about two weeks later mom saw an ad in the paper in the Lost and Found that a parakeet had been found. Mom immediately called the number. Mom described PeeWee to the man, but other than being green and a parakeet, was there any other way to identify the bird, the man asked. Mom thought for a minute. Yes! Our bird has an identification band on one of his legs with the number 69 on it. That was it! They had found PeeWee. We hurried to pick him up at the sight where he had been found. The city was building a new elementary school, and one of the workers had found PeeWee sitting on the old merry-go-round. He was battered and tired, and he let the man pick him up with no resistance. We brought him home and treated him to the very best treatment ever. He was even allowed a little dab of butter to peck on.

It was a while before PeeWee began to chatter and talk, and even longer before he wanted to play dive-bomber. There was little laughter for quite a while. PeeWee was very glad to be home, and he wasn't in the mood for much nonsense. But he eventually perked up and was the same old tease, with lots of laughter and diving.

We also had to be careful when we ran our bath water to be sure the door was closed. He loved to dive through the water as it was coming out which invariably knocked him down. He was able to fly out of the water to repeat the process until he was too wet to fly. So we kept the door shut, and kept a small bowl of water on a table so that he could swim and splash safely and at his leisure.

PeeWee had a very large bell in his cage. Mom had received it from Dad and it had a small bottle of nice perfume attached to it. So, PeeWee inherited the bell, and he loved to place his whole body inside it and sleep. Inside the bell was a little ball on a piece of thick string, and he could beat on this bell with his bill and make a lot of noise, ringing and shrieking, and, of course, laughing at himself. He could see his image in the bell, and it was just a delightful addition to his many toys. While we were gone to town that day PeeWee decided to take a nap inside his bell. We can only imagine what caused him to get wrapped up in that string, but when we got home we found a bloody bird laying on the floor at the side of his cage. Somehow he had gotten the string with the ball on the end of it wrapped around and around his neck. When he realized he was caught he had flapped and fought his way, bell and all, down the side of the cage and onto the floor where he lay exhausted and not appearing to breathe.

We got him out of the cage and clipped off the string with scissors. He had beaten himself raw of feathers in many parts of his head and neck and wings. He was a sad, bloody mess. He was barely alive, and once again my mom spent weeks feeding him water with an eyedropper, hand-feeding him lettuce and bird seed. He slept on my chest whenever I was home from school, and I never let him out of my sight. His cage had always been covered for the night, but now I not only covered it, but I kept it close, either having it in my room or sleeping on the couch. And wouldn't you know it, PeeWee grew back to health, and was the same old stinker that he had always been. This bird had nine lives.

PeeWee said lots of words, some in sentences, some just words he heard that he repeated. He knew when to say "Give me a kiss." He knew when to laugh, especially at mom. He was one of the smart ones. I've seen many instances when people have tried to teach a bird to talk and they never do. I'm not sure if it's the bird's fault or the teacher's, but I know that he was quick to learn and he knew when to say things.

One thing my mom and I thought was one of the funniest things is when my Grandma who we lived with would get angry. She often would slam doors and move her furniture around in her room and stomp through the house from the bathroom and back to her room. When she did this PeeWee would laugh at her as she passed his cage. She would stop, give him a dirty look, make a scoffing sound and stomp on, to which PeeWee would laugh. He really was a bad, bad bird. And mom and I were bad for thinking this was funny.

One morning when I was 16 I was in the bathroom getting ready for school. The door opened and my mom walked in and sat down on the edge of the tub. She asked me to sit down with her, then told me that during the night PeeWee had died, that she had found him on the floor of his cage and that dad had immediately taken him out to the back to bury him so that I wouldn't have to see him. It took old age to kill such a fine bird. Nothing else could overtake him.

My life has been blessed with many pets that were dear to me. PeeWee was the first. He was the bravest. And he was the most exasperating pet I've ever seen. To this day I think of him and smile with admiration. PeeWee was a dirty bird.

TAKING VACATIONS?

My, how times have changed! Perhaps it's because growing up in the 1950's was already so pleasant. But, I suspect that the reason our family took so few vacations was that we couldn't afford it. Actually, the word vacation just wasn't in our family vocabulary, or just not considered at all. There was work to do, and it was done six days a week. Sunday was for church and rest. There were one or two times that I think I can say we were on a vacation, but not often, and certainly not every year.


I don't remember my dad even taking days off, or having a set vacation time every year. He went to work every day, even when he was sick. He had no "sick days", and I don't believe he had "vacation days" at any of his jobs. We just stayed home. We had short trips on weekends, but those were always to family within driving distance, and we went fishing in the summer evenings. That was dad's relaxation time, not to mention it filled our freezer for winter meals. He also hunted on winter Saturdays, and I went along most of the time, and my mom would come along sometimes. We hunted squirrel, rabbit, quail, pheasant, ducks, and deer. I didn't go along when he went deer hunting. That required too much sitting, and you had to be very quiet and still. Quiet I could do. Still was another story. The commom quip from my day about me was that I had "ants in my pants". Winter meals were pretty much established by fishing and hunting, and of course, there were canned vegetables and fruits from the garden.

I looked forward to Falls City's "4-H Fair Days" every year. During these three days of parades and a carnival on main street (Stone Street) there was a rodeo every evening, and during the daylight hours there were 4-H entries at the auditorium that were being judged, winning ribbons, and people wandering around admiring all the entries. I was in 4-H for many years, so I always had baked entries, hand sewn clothes, and crafted items. There were many farmers in the area, and so there were livestock entries, rabbits, and other domesticated animals. Those three days were usually the highlight of the summer. They were the first week of August, just before State Fair and County Fair, and we always had so much fun, even though I wasn't allowed as much money for the rides as other kids. But I did my best to save pennies. Rides were usually 5 cents, some were 10. My dad would give me 50 cents, and I made it last most of the day. The best part about a small town is that I could go to the fair without my parents. My dad worked in the downtown area, so I always had access to him. If it was a good day, and he was in a good mood, I just might be able to stop by his store and weasel another 5 cents, but he had to be in a good mood. It helped if there were other people around.

Almost every year my mom and I traveled by Continental Trailways (bus) to visit my Grandma Campbell. I remember twice we took a train. That's my idea of a vacation. My grandmother lived with her son Raymond and his wife Marian and their son Jerry. I really loved going to their house. It was always fun. For a while they lived in Waxahatchie, Texas, and that is when we traveled by train. I was very young, but I remember it very well. We usually went at Christmas time, and in southern Texas it was usually pretty warm, so there was lots of outdoor time with Jerry and his friends. My grandmother would sit with me for hours to teach me things like embroidery, and crocheting. We did crosswords together, and the whole family played board games every night. My uncle would challenge me to spell really long words on the blackboard they had in their kitchen, and he would tease me constantly about everything. I loved being in that house.

They moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma later, and I loved going there as well. Their home was a Cape Cod style brick, with a wonderful climbing tree in the back. Mom and Grandma and I would sit on the back patio for hours and drink iced tea and talk and sing hymns. I was a little intimidated by my Aunt Marian. She was about four foot ten, talked so fast you really had to pay attention, chomped ice incessantly, and was a stick of dynamite. She and my uncle were both Baptist preachers, and they were fun. But I didn't mess with her. I did exactly what she told me to do.

When I was about nine or ten my dad planned a fishing trip to Minnesota in September. September in Minnesota is pretty cool, and I remember a bit of rain that year. We all went up together and the lake and fish odors, and the autumn damp smell will be in my memory forever. There were no other children to play with because the normal tourist season was over, so when I wasn't out on the lake with my dad and his friend I would be in the little cafe that was on the grounds. This is where I learned to slow dance. The daughter of the owner of the campground worked in this little cafe, and she was a teen, probably fifteen. She was just old enough for me to think I wanted to be just like her. And I was company for her. So she played the jukebox or the old piano they had there, and taught me to dance, and especially to waltz.

Being on this trip was the first time I had ever seen a chipmunk, and it was the very first time in my life that I was allowed to wear something other than a dress or skirt. My dad was very old fashioned and strict, and I wasn't even allowed shorts in the summer. We were in Minnesota, almost to our destination, when my dad asked my mom if she had enough warm clothes for me. She said that I had a coat and a sweater, but she thought I would still be cold out on the lake. Dad hadn't even considered this, so we stopped at a store in the next town, and they purchased for me my very first pair of jeans and a hooded sweat shirt. As far as I was concerned, it might as well have been a princess dress. I was so happy to finally have pants, and I wore them every single day I was there. Mom washed them out and hung them to dry or I would have worn them dirty.

I remember another time when we travelled to Tuttlecreek Lake in Kansas for a weekend fishing trip. This was just after a tornado had leveled a lot of the area around it. We saw a piece of siding from a house trailer that was speared into a tree. And I remember going to Joplin, Missouri a couple of times to visit my dad's sister, my Aunt Vera. This was in the Ozarks, and that was enjoyable because we not only went to her house, but we did some sight seeing. Beautiful country, and my mom almost got wiped out by a mama buffalo because she got to close to her baby buffalo. That was exciting. On our way home we stopped at some caverns called Bridal Cave and saw stalactites and stalagmites.

My dad had stomach ulcers, and once I remember he and my mom had to go to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, so they dropped me off at my dad's brother's in Iowa City. That was sort of a vacation, and I got to meet their friend's children, and grew closer to my Aunt Bettye. I also can tell you what music was popular at the time because my dad played the car radio a lot. He seldom did this, but on a trip he did because my mom enjoyed the music. I rememer hearing songs like Personality, and Don't Know Much About History, the first version, so this must have been in the late 50's.

I was allowed many times to spend weekends with friends and family who lived on farms. Those are wonderful memories, and I really enjoyed farm living. Once, when I was eleven or twelve, someone in our church paid for me to go to church camp with the kids. Initially I wasn't able to go because we didn't have the money, but someone came forward to pay my way.

Well, there you have it. I can't think that there were any other times that we left home for any length of time. Even leaving home for a day trip to visit aunts and uncles or even the cemeteries was like a vacation at our house, and we did that often.

Today, Ron and I travel to visit our grandchildren. We enjoy being around them more than going anywhere else. That family planned a trip with us to the ocean, which was my first time to see it, and that was lots of fun. Ron and I seldom go to places without our children. When you live away from all of them there is just no where else we want to go, though, I will say I do have this desire to see the Grand Canyon, and I am campaigning for the trip, but I'm not holding my breath. When I take a trip, I go alone lots of times, which is fine with me, but after about four days I get very homesick for Ron, and sometimes I cry and get a little cranky until I can get passed it. I always love going home.

Roller Skating

Last week my grandson, Wesley, called me with some bad news. He and his brother Calvin, his sister Lelia, and his mom had gone out for the evening to a roller skating rink. This was the second or third time they had been roller skating, and they had fallen in love with the exercise. Their mom, Jill, had skated as a youth, and she was excited to introduce the activity to her children. They say that roller skating is just like riding a bicycle, you never forget how. Well, that is the good news. The bad news was that at the end of the evening, just before leaving the floor, Wesley had fallen and he had broken his left arm just above the wrist.

I commiserated with him, telling him how much I wished I could be there to comfort him, knowing all the while that there is only so much a Grammy can do when comforting a thirteen year-old. Hugs are dangerous when there are broken bones involved, and suggestions of sitting on Grammy's lap would probably be met with a sarcastic roll of the eyes, though, with Wesley I might get a surprise. He does love his Grammy.

After our long distance conversation I began to reminisce about my younger days on roller skates. My grandchildren would no doubt consider my props quite primitive. And as I gaze upon the picture of what is considered a pair of "antique" roller skates, I have to chuckle. They look exactly like the ones I owned and used for years. Guess that makes me an "antique" as well, though I feel as if I could buckle those babies up and take off right now on them. And so begins my short saga of skating away hours of my childhood on my "antique" skates.

The most exciting ride I ever took as a child was on my bike. As I have written, I spent hours of my summer days exploring my little town of five thousand, and soaring down steep hills. But the second most exciting ride I took was on my roller skates. I had no siblings at home to grow up with, so many times I played alone, using my imagination to pass my time away. I also had lots of games and toys and dolls that I had fun with. But being outside and seeing the world around me was so much better than sitting inside on a beautiful day with a baby doll to dress and talk to.

Falls City was primarily laid out in city blocks, all uniform in their rectangle shapes. Here and there would be a block of irregular shape, but you could measure your trip in our town by blocks. For instance, I walked exactly twelve blocks to school. (One of the most annoying things I remember growing up was having to walk a block out of my way and then back to get to my friend's house because the street I walked on stopped and picked up again three blocks over. I would have cut through, but there was a stream that I would have had to wade through, and the banks were too steep to manage.) My block was the standard, with six houses on our side of the block and two houses and a church on the other. There was an alley cut down the center.

Now, putting on these skates is a story in itself. You can see from the picture that it wasn't like putting on a pair of shoes as it is today, though when we went to the roller rink we did wear boot skates similar to the ones today. No, attaching these skates sometimes took some skill, a learned skill that came from trial and error and repeated applications. First of all, you couldn't just wear any old shoe with them. The shoe you wore needed a sole with a definite ridge around the edge. Tennis shoes or sandals just didn't work. Usually we wore an oxford type shoe that was very sturdy. Stepping onto the skate, the first thing to do was to buckle the strap, making sure it was not too loose, not too tight. Then we adjusted the metal grips on each side of the toe of the shoe. Here's where my trusty skate key came in. One end of the skate key was placed on the metal rod that turned, causing the grips to open and close. Again, it was important that the grips were not too loose or not too tight. The grips wrapped around the sole of your shoe, hopefully securing the skate. You're ready. You think.

Sometimes the skate fell off as soon as you stood up, and you would have to start all over again. Sometimes the skate would wait until you got half-way down the block before it fell off. Then you would have to sit down and start all over again. Remember, there are two of these skates.

Some days the procedure went off without a hitch, and I would skate around and around and around my block. To this day, fifty-some years later, I can tell you where most of the holes in the cement sidewalks were. I can remember the sections of sidewalk that had shifted over time, and so were not level. These are very important things to remember because these places in the walk needed to be navigated with care. Forget one silver dollar sized hole and it could send you sprawling, hopefully in the grass, but more than likely on the cement. I'll just say that I suffered many, many skinned knees and elbows in my day.

The church was fairly new at the time, and, along with the parsonage, it took up half of the block. Therefore, the sidewalk along this area was newer and smoother and a real delight for skaters. It also was on a slight decline, so going down that sidewalk in front of the church was so much uninterrupted fun. There were no hazards to watch for, just smooth sailing. But, as soon as you passed the parsonage home was one of the worst places on the whole block. One side of the sidewalk jutted up about two inches, causing you to have to remember to step over as you passed. What a memory I have! I can see that sidewalk in my mind's eye still today.

Crossing the alley way was a bit tricky as well because the alley wasn't paved. It was covered with rocks, so navigating around them took some concentration. Then on I went. I could say that I was mindlessly traversing my way, but that wouldn't be correct. I was always alert to the happenings around me. I checked out every yard, looking for something new to catalogue in my brain. There were sometimes dogs to evade, (no leash law back then), there were cats on one corner of the block to watch out for, but mostly there were dreams to be dreamed. It is a bit mindless, I guess, but I could go there for hours on end and never be bored.

Many times my friend Mary Casey was with me. When you skate with a friend the pattern is different. Sometimes we raced. Sometimes we were single file, traveling again in our own worlds. Sometimes we would skate the opposite directions trying to meet at the same place on each go round, scoring ourselves for accuracy. As I look back I can see how limited we were with our roller skates, but at that age we had no cares, we had nowhere to go. We were so happy with the monotony of traveling around and around our few square feet of our world.

Before I forget, I must retreat to the treasured skate key. If I lost my skate key, which I did sometimes, I didn't skate. You have to have one to adjust the skates. Oh, pliers worked, but they were too big and too awkward, and besides, you had to borrow them from Daddy which wasn't always easy to do. So, my skate key hung on a cord that I hung around my neck so that it was always with me. My roller skates tended to fall off often, and many times on the opposite side of the block, and way too many times sending me to the ground. I didn't want to have to round up my skate key at a time like this. And there was a special drawer at home where I kept my skate key (if I remembered to put it away) so that I always knew where it was.

I know this story seems to be a very mundane tale, but I can assure you that in an old woman's memory these were some of the most wonderful days. I had a very good childhood. My memories of it are so delightful and happy. I had wonderful parents, though I didn't think so at the time. They were happy and good to me. I lived in a happy home. Each of my days when not in school were filled with simple moments of simple pleasures. And on my roller skates, I was pleasured for hours.

Cousin Robert Peck

There is little I remember about this day. Nothing sticks out in my mind beyond standing beside an austere white hospital bed. I don't remember it being a bright room; perhaps a little drab in atmosphere, but I do remember white sheets. I was barely old enough, or should I say tall enough, to see over the top of the bed, but I can remember standing shyly, watching as my mother and dad visited with my cousin Robert, his body lounging in the white sheets, a mischievous, ornery grin lingering on his lips. His eyes twinkled as he recapped his version of what had happened. He may have had an arm or a leg in a cast, I don't remember. I don't think I was supposed to be in that section of the hospital at my age, but somehow I was allowed in, or snuck in.

William Robert Peck was a member of the U.S. Air Force and stationed at the SAC base in Omaha which, at the time was only fifty miles north of where we lived in Auburn, Nebraska. Robert was my mother's sister Leora's son, second son I think. My Aunt Leora had died a few years earlier, and my parents had a very deep, emotional attachment to all of her children. Robert was old enough to join the service, but while he was stationed in Omaha he spent many weekends with us, driving back and forth.

My story is just that; my story. He could have been many things other than what a little five year old sees, but this is how I saw him, and I adored him as I would an older brother.

Robert was a ladies' man, or so he made me think. The girlfriends he had at his beck and call were endless. Not only were there girls, but they were beautiful girls. When Robert spoke about his girlfriends his eyes twinkled, and that ornery, mischievous look was there, as if he knew secrets that he could never tell. He was an enigma to me, an ever-changing riddle that I was never able to answer. I was convinced that no woman could resist the charms of this man, but for the life of me, I can't remember once that he ever produced one of these women in our presence. I didn't notice or care at the time. I loved him dearly, and was so happy when he came to visit.

Robert was a tease. I think this is why I liked him so much, and I know I wanted to be a tease just like him. He teased me relentlessly. He told me stories, poked good-natured fun at me, tickled me, and called me names. He was the first to call me "Skinny Minny". Later, when I got a little older he would say, "Skinny Minny. She ain't skinny. She's just tall; that's all." I would gush with glee when he teased me, and I hated if he stopped. Robert told dirty jokes to my dad, and showed him girlie pictures. He was good to my mom, and he and his brother Ed sent gifts to my mom, and to me, while they were stationed overseas.

Too bad Robert didn't teach me how to know when not to tease or when to stop. I remember one day when I was about 10 standing at the front door of my grandmother's house where we were living. Robert was showing my dad a picture and I wanted to see it. I believe he was laughing when I first began to beg to see it, but the laughter stopped when I reached up to grab the picture and tore it; a big tear almost up the middle of it. He was angry, my dad was angry and embarrassed, and I was crushed. I couldn't believe I had done that. I was so ashamed and so sorry, but it was done, and I doubt that there was much teasing the rest of his visit.

Robert took me for a ride one day in his MG, and I was so thrilled that he would do that for me. I climbed into the low, black, bucket seat, and my legs and feet were straight out in front of me. I couldn't believe it! I had never been in a sports car before, and this was so exciting. I didn't realize how close to the ground you were, and how the world looked from down there, riding along as if you were in a little red wagon, but enclosed and going fast.

The hospital visit we were making followed a car accident that totalled his car, but I don't remember what kind of car it was. As I recall, it's a wonder it didn't total him, but he recovered and has gone on to live a full life.

It was a few years before Robert married, and when he did I can remember the shock that went through our household when we met her. Robert's wife was not at all what we expected him to bring home to us. Lois was tall, about six feet tall, she was a little on the heavy side, and she was not the beauty queen that all of us had supposed he would choose. Instead, Robert had chosen a good, solid woman of strength and good humor. She fit right in with us, happy and down to earth. I think she made him a very good wife, and she gave him two children while they were stationed in Germany. I think they were both very happy together.

Lois was killed in a terrible one-car accident on her way to work one day when they lived in Kansas. I think this was devastating for Robert and his children, and I have never heard him speak of it. His sister, Lois, related the news to us. Robert has since remarried a very nice woman whom he met through a camping club, I believe. I have met her and like her very much.

The best memories of Robert for me were his teasing and the love that I felt for him and from him when he came to visit. I have a picture of him holding me in his arms that I love. I love the look on his face when he looks at me, and I remember the love that I carried in my heart for him. I grew up, and life goes on, but my memories of Robert have not faded, just distanced.

Below I have included Robert's service information that he supplied for me.

William Robert Peck
yob;8-13-1929
ENLISTED USAF:2SEPT 1950
BASIC TNG LACKLAND AFB TEXAS
TECH SCHOOL FORT BELVOIR

VIRGINIA-LITHOGRAPHIC PRINTING
LAWSON FIELD FORT BENNING GA
MOUNTAIN HOME AFB IDAHO
WHEELUS AFB TRIPOLI LYBIA
SCOTT AFB ILLINOIS
OFFUTT AFB OMAHA NEBRASKA
TECH SCHOOL MISSILE ELECTRONIC TNG\
LOWERY AFB DENVER COLORADO
ASSIGNED TO MISSILE SCHOOL AS INSTRUCTOR
MISSILE LAUNCH SCHOOL ORLANDO AFB FLORIDA
MISSILE LAUNCH CREW HAHN AFB GERMANY

p.s.

Today, December 17, 2010, I went back to read through this memory of Robert, and I realized I have left out a very important part of his life. I don't know how old he was at the time, he must have been in his early teens, that he contracted polio. Polio was a very deadly and frightening desease back in the 40s and 50s, and it wasn't until Jonas Salk developed a serum to fight it that it began to fade away. One of the first vaccinations I received after I was born was the polio vaccine, which left a small round scar on my right shoulder. Robert had polio before the vaccine was developed, and I have been told that he spent months in an iron lung. You will have to research this monster of a machine to get any answers to questions you might have about it. I have no knowledge of how it worked, but I've seen pictures of it. Frightful!

Robert lived through this horror, but he was left with a withered arm and leg. I don't remember which side these were on, but I remember his hand and arm being shorter and very limited in its use, and he walked with a decided limp. How he got into the air force is a mystery. But I know he never allowed this to interfere in the things he wanted to do it life. I'm sure I neglected to mention this before because it was such a part of him that after a while you just didn't notice it.

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.