JW Scare
Wednesday is my day off so I usually spend it doing laundry, beginning first thing in the morning. Sometimes I’ve done two or three loads before I even get out of my jammies and into day clothes. Yesterday was no exception. However, yesterday the weather was breezy and above freezing – perfect for drying the bedding on the clothesline – I love the scent of line-dried sheets and quilts. So the sheets and mattress pad were the second load of the day, and of course I was still in my pajamas.
I love my pajamas. I got them in Nederland, Colorado last summer when I was vacationing with my sisters. My PJs are of soft t-shirt fabric, long pants and a tank top. They are bright pick with brown horses trotting all over them. I have a pair of socks to match, only the socks are brown with pink horses on them. Since the early morning was a bit brisk when it was time to hang my bedding on the line, I grabbed the first jacket I could find; my bright red Nebraska Cornhusker windbreaker. The back yard, where the clothesline is located was only last week under a six-foot snowdrift, so the ground is still a little soggy. I pulled on my manure encrusted barn boots and headed out. The breeze was whipping around my ears, so I pulled up the hood on the windbreaker, finished hanging the sheets and made my way back into the house.
We live down in a little valley on a remote gravel road in Northeast Nebraska. No one ever just stumbles onto our place; you have to come here on purpose or not at all, so I usually don’t’ concern myself with drop-in visitors. As I rounded the corner of the house towards the front door in all my laundry day finery, I came face to face with two Jehovah’s Witnesses. With my hood up, I must have appeared to them as a gaudy red and pink version of the Angel of Death. And let’s not even mention the aroma that must have been emanating from my barn boots.
It’s hard to say who was more startled. They just tried to hand me one of their publications, to which I replied “No, thank you.” Then one of them mumbled something about catching me “at a bad time” and then they scurried back to their car and peeled out.
I don’t think they’ll be back.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Ferrier visit
My Ferrier comes today to work on my horses’ feet. This was one of the things that used to make me extremely nervous when I was a greenhorn. My mare was 5 years old when I first got her and had offered her previous owners no problems when it was time for a Ferrier visit. She stood still, gave up her feet without a fuss to him and let him hold it between his knees while he did what he needed to do for as long as he needed to do it. However, when it came to my Ferrier, she forgot all of her good manners. She jerked her feet away from him at every opportunity. She rared. She kicked at him. She spun around and pretty much behaved like a brat for him, which scared the heck out of me. A 950 pound animal with really hard feet throwing a temper tantrum is a frightening thing. Foolishly, I blamed her. Then, one day after he left, I found some welts on her back and sides. He had hit her with his hammer. Needless to say, he was not invited back.
Fortunately for me, I got in touch with a good Ferrier and got on his schedule, right before he stopped accepting new clients. He is worth his weight in gold. The first time my mare tried to jerk her foot away from him, he simply held it tighter and continued his work. She tried to rare up and he held even tighter, pausing only long enough to make sure he kept his balance, and continued his work. I apologized for her behavior and expressed that I thought she should know better and he shrugged it off saying, “She’s only a horse.” She soon learned that resistance was futile. By the second time he visited, she and I had both calmed down considerably. He’s been with me ever since.
Two things I learned from him about horse handling that served me very well over the years: (1) no matter what the horse’s reaction is, just keep doing what you’re doing. They’ll stop fussing eventually. And (2) He’s only a horse. You can’t expect him to know anything about obedience (or lack thereof) he hasn’t learned from you.
Another thing I like about his visits is he is a really good storyteller. He spent some time in his youth as a cowboy working on a dude ranch in Wyoming and I hope to capture some of his stories on paper. He told me once about being out fixing fence in a pretty remote area one time and he and his partner came across a herd of buffalo. They noticed one cow separate herself from the herd and lay down. It became obvious to them that she was in labor. Then they saw another cow follow her and start trotting in circles (about 120 feet) around her. The second cow kept her trotting vigil until the calf had been born, licked off and was steady on his feet. Then all three of them went back to the main herd. He commented, “I don’t know why I was granted the privilege of seeing something like that. Most people aren’t that lucky.”
I wonder what his story will be today?
My Ferrier comes today to work on my horses’ feet. This was one of the things that used to make me extremely nervous when I was a greenhorn. My mare was 5 years old when I first got her and had offered her previous owners no problems when it was time for a Ferrier visit. She stood still, gave up her feet without a fuss to him and let him hold it between his knees while he did what he needed to do for as long as he needed to do it. However, when it came to my Ferrier, she forgot all of her good manners. She jerked her feet away from him at every opportunity. She rared. She kicked at him. She spun around and pretty much behaved like a brat for him, which scared the heck out of me. A 950 pound animal with really hard feet throwing a temper tantrum is a frightening thing. Foolishly, I blamed her. Then, one day after he left, I found some welts on her back and sides. He had hit her with his hammer. Needless to say, he was not invited back.
Fortunately for me, I got in touch with a good Ferrier and got on his schedule, right before he stopped accepting new clients. He is worth his weight in gold. The first time my mare tried to jerk her foot away from him, he simply held it tighter and continued his work. She tried to rare up and he held even tighter, pausing only long enough to make sure he kept his balance, and continued his work. I apologized for her behavior and expressed that I thought she should know better and he shrugged it off saying, “She’s only a horse.” She soon learned that resistance was futile. By the second time he visited, she and I had both calmed down considerably. He’s been with me ever since.
Two things I learned from him about horse handling that served me very well over the years: (1) no matter what the horse’s reaction is, just keep doing what you’re doing. They’ll stop fussing eventually. And (2) He’s only a horse. You can’t expect him to know anything about obedience (or lack thereof) he hasn’t learned from you.
Another thing I like about his visits is he is a really good storyteller. He spent some time in his youth as a cowboy working on a dude ranch in Wyoming and I hope to capture some of his stories on paper. He told me once about being out fixing fence in a pretty remote area one time and he and his partner came across a herd of buffalo. They noticed one cow separate herself from the herd and lay down. It became obvious to them that she was in labor. Then they saw another cow follow her and start trotting in circles (about 120 feet) around her. The second cow kept her trotting vigil until the calf had been born, licked off and was steady on his feet. Then all three of them went back to the main herd. He commented, “I don’t know why I was granted the privilege of seeing something like that. Most people aren’t that lucky.”
I wonder what his story will be today?
Monday, March 12, 2007
This is not good:
I had some free time Saturday morning, so I headed into Omaha for a haircut. I’ve been attempting to grow it out to a more ladylike length (see Fat Old Man posting January 6, 2007) and it was time to get it trimmed up. Well, I’m not sure what happened, but the stylist didn’t clearly understand what I wanted, (how many different meanings can be applied to “Not quite that short.”?) because when I look in the mirror now I see Tom Bergeron of ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos.’ At least he isn’t fat.
I intended to get back into a routine where I take a walk every day, but found some excuse or another not to both Saturday and Sunday as well as today.
We lost an hour Saturday night due to Daylight Savings Time. I heard that the Congressman who decided we should do this two weeks earlier thinks it will save energy, because we won’t have to turn the lights on so early in the evening. We have to turn our’s on earlier in the morning, so as far as I can tell we haven’t gained anything.
This is better:
The weekend weather was pleasant enough; especially compared to the last two. Temps hovering between 30 and 60 F.
We have a creek that crosses our driveway at its lowest point and it was so high and running so fast on Friday afternoon, I took the camera out to record the phenomenon. By Saturday morning, it had fallen to a more normal level, though it is still flowing faster than usual. Almost all the snow is gone, except where it was piled up by the scrapers and loaders.
I’ve heard rumors that robins have been spotted in the area. I haven’t seen any robins, though I did hear a cardinal a few days ago. Our barn swallows aren’t back yet, but I expect them any day now.
The inside out cats are spending more time outside than in the past few days. I don’t mean the cats are inside out – that would be ugly. I mean they are allowed in because they know how to use the litterbox and they are allowed out because we trust them not to run off.
The lot my horses live in is a quagmire, but they don’t seem to mind. They’ve started shedding their winter coats and a roll in the mud must relieve the itching, because they were both absolutely covered with it from nose to tail Friday evening.
We got our tax returns back from H & R Block and everyone is getting a refund. I got the FAFSA onlines filled out for my college students and they both qualify for aid.
This is best:
Our Girl Scout cookies came. Love those Caramel Delights.
I had some free time Saturday morning, so I headed into Omaha for a haircut. I’ve been attempting to grow it out to a more ladylike length (see Fat Old Man posting January 6, 2007) and it was time to get it trimmed up. Well, I’m not sure what happened, but the stylist didn’t clearly understand what I wanted, (how many different meanings can be applied to “Not quite that short.”?) because when I look in the mirror now I see Tom Bergeron of ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos.’ At least he isn’t fat.
I intended to get back into a routine where I take a walk every day, but found some excuse or another not to both Saturday and Sunday as well as today.
We lost an hour Saturday night due to Daylight Savings Time. I heard that the Congressman who decided we should do this two weeks earlier thinks it will save energy, because we won’t have to turn the lights on so early in the evening. We have to turn our’s on earlier in the morning, so as far as I can tell we haven’t gained anything.
This is better:
The weekend weather was pleasant enough; especially compared to the last two. Temps hovering between 30 and 60 F.
We have a creek that crosses our driveway at its lowest point and it was so high and running so fast on Friday afternoon, I took the camera out to record the phenomenon. By Saturday morning, it had fallen to a more normal level, though it is still flowing faster than usual. Almost all the snow is gone, except where it was piled up by the scrapers and loaders.
I’ve heard rumors that robins have been spotted in the area. I haven’t seen any robins, though I did hear a cardinal a few days ago. Our barn swallows aren’t back yet, but I expect them any day now.
The inside out cats are spending more time outside than in the past few days. I don’t mean the cats are inside out – that would be ugly. I mean they are allowed in because they know how to use the litterbox and they are allowed out because we trust them not to run off.
The lot my horses live in is a quagmire, but they don’t seem to mind. They’ve started shedding their winter coats and a roll in the mud must relieve the itching, because they were both absolutely covered with it from nose to tail Friday evening.
We got our tax returns back from H & R Block and everyone is getting a refund. I got the FAFSA onlines filled out for my college students and they both qualify for aid.
This is best:
Our Girl Scout cookies came. Love those Caramel Delights.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Horse joining a Cycling Race - What other kind of video would you expect from me?
And he's off and running!! This is an experiment in digg-blogging. Hope you like it.
read more | digg story
read more | digg story
What time is it?
It’s time for some thoughts on time.
I sent an email to a friend who lives in the same time zone I do one Monday at 11:30 AM. She sent me a reply that same day at 8:32 AM. Now, I knew email was faster than the US Postal service, but I wasn’t aware they had mastered time travel. Is that on an HTML somewhere I can copy and paste in?
And on my blog, the weather stamp (at left) is exactly 56 minutes behind the time my computer clock says it is. I thought all computer clocks were calibrated to a big Atomic Clock somewhere on the planet that is supposed to be accurate to within a fraction of a second per century. So who is off? My computer or my weather stamp? Or is the Atomic Clock?
And this weekend, we switch over to Daylight Savings Time (DST). We “Spring Forward” and cause the sun to stay up an hour later in the evening (see what wonders our clocks have wrought). That means, it comes up an hour later in the morning and we morning people will lose an hour of daylight. I was just getting used to heading out to the barn with the eastern sky beginning to glow and having it be almost full daylight by the time I’m done and headed back to the house. By Sunday morning, I’ll have been plunged back into darkness for my chore time. The change officially occurs at 2 AM Sunday. How come they can’t change it a little bit at a time like maybe 15 minutes or so for four days? Then maybe we wouldn’t be so groggy on the Monday after the DST change.
And where, exactly, does time begin? I used to think it was based on Greenwich Mean Time, but someone told me that ,no, it actually starts somewhere off the coast of Australia. I have a little card in my rolodex that tells me that when it’s noon here, it’s 4 AM in Sydney, Australia. But 4 AM of what day? Would that be today or yesterday? Or maybe tomorrow? And did you know that, even though California, Montana and Texas are all geographically bigger than Nebraska, they each only occupy one time zone – we have two. It changes by an hour in North Platte. And how did they decide on changing it by an hour in just one spot? How come it doesn’t change by 15 minute intervals every 200 miles or so?
One time or day I’ve never seen on any clock or calendar is some. As in, “I’m going to go take Janell to lunch someday.” Stop saying that ‘coz someday ain’t ever gonna happen. It’s just not on the calendar. I checked.
Sometime isn’t on any of my clocks either; not the digitals or the ones with faces or the one on my arm.
Another place you won’t ever find some on is a map – not even on Yahoo or Mapquest. And especially not the wrinkled up mess in the glove compartment. That one’s so old, it might make Antiques Roadshow, but even if it is, you still won’t find someplace or somewhere on it. So even if you want to “take a vacation somewhere someday,” you can just forget it. You’ll never find a hotel someplace and you can’t get a reservation for some time.
Okay, that’s enough of this nonsense.
It’s time for some thoughts on time.
I sent an email to a friend who lives in the same time zone I do one Monday at 11:30 AM. She sent me a reply that same day at 8:32 AM. Now, I knew email was faster than the US Postal service, but I wasn’t aware they had mastered time travel. Is that on an HTML somewhere I can copy and paste in?
And on my blog, the weather stamp (at left) is exactly 56 minutes behind the time my computer clock says it is. I thought all computer clocks were calibrated to a big Atomic Clock somewhere on the planet that is supposed to be accurate to within a fraction of a second per century. So who is off? My computer or my weather stamp? Or is the Atomic Clock?
And this weekend, we switch over to Daylight Savings Time (DST). We “Spring Forward” and cause the sun to stay up an hour later in the evening (see what wonders our clocks have wrought). That means, it comes up an hour later in the morning and we morning people will lose an hour of daylight. I was just getting used to heading out to the barn with the eastern sky beginning to glow and having it be almost full daylight by the time I’m done and headed back to the house. By Sunday morning, I’ll have been plunged back into darkness for my chore time. The change officially occurs at 2 AM Sunday. How come they can’t change it a little bit at a time like maybe 15 minutes or so for four days? Then maybe we wouldn’t be so groggy on the Monday after the DST change.
And where, exactly, does time begin? I used to think it was based on Greenwich Mean Time, but someone told me that ,no, it actually starts somewhere off the coast of Australia. I have a little card in my rolodex that tells me that when it’s noon here, it’s 4 AM in Sydney, Australia. But 4 AM of what day? Would that be today or yesterday? Or maybe tomorrow? And did you know that, even though California, Montana and Texas are all geographically bigger than Nebraska, they each only occupy one time zone – we have two. It changes by an hour in North Platte. And how did they decide on changing it by an hour in just one spot? How come it doesn’t change by 15 minute intervals every 200 miles or so?
One time or day I’ve never seen on any clock or calendar is some. As in, “I’m going to go take Janell to lunch someday.” Stop saying that ‘coz someday ain’t ever gonna happen. It’s just not on the calendar. I checked.
Sometime isn’t on any of my clocks either; not the digitals or the ones with faces or the one on my arm.
Another place you won’t ever find some on is a map – not even on Yahoo or Mapquest. And especially not the wrinkled up mess in the glove compartment. That one’s so old, it might make Antiques Roadshow, but even if it is, you still won’t find someplace or somewhere on it. So even if you want to “take a vacation somewhere someday,” you can just forget it. You’ll never find a hotel someplace and you can’t get a reservation for some time.
Okay, that’s enough of this nonsense.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Onion Pie
Delicious! If you like onion blooms or onion rings, you’ll like this pie.
I tried this recipe while I was snowed in last weekend and was it ever good! It's from the Lyons (Nebraska) Methodist Cookbook published in 1991. The recipe was submitted by Phyllis Hensley.
1 ½ Cups Ritz Crackers, crushed
5 Tblsp butter
5 Tblsp butter
3 cups onions, sliced thin
2 eggs
1 cup milk
½ cup cheese, grated
salt & Pepper to taste
½ Cup Ritz Crackers, crushed
Mix 1 ½ cups cracker crumbs with 5 tablespoons melted butter. Press into pie plate.
Saute onions with remaining butter until limp. Spoon onions into pie shell.
Mix together eggs, milk, salt and pepper. Pour over onions. Sprinkle cheese over onions and sprinkle with remaining ½ cup crumbs. Bake at 350 F for 30 minutes.
Here is a sauce I concocted to go with it:
½ cup mayonnaise
3 Tblsp horseradish sauce
1 tsp Louisana hot sauce or tobasco
¼ cup ketchup
Mix thoroughly.
Delicious! If you like onion blooms or onion rings, you’ll like this pie.
I tried this recipe while I was snowed in last weekend and was it ever good! It's from the Lyons (Nebraska) Methodist Cookbook published in 1991. The recipe was submitted by Phyllis Hensley.
1 ½ Cups Ritz Crackers, crushed
5 Tblsp butter
5 Tblsp butter
3 cups onions, sliced thin
2 eggs
1 cup milk
½ cup cheese, grated
salt & Pepper to taste
½ Cup Ritz Crackers, crushed
Mix 1 ½ cups cracker crumbs with 5 tablespoons melted butter. Press into pie plate.
Saute onions with remaining butter until limp. Spoon onions into pie shell.
Mix together eggs, milk, salt and pepper. Pour over onions. Sprinkle cheese over onions and sprinkle with remaining ½ cup crumbs. Bake at 350 F for 30 minutes.
Here is a sauce I concocted to go with it:
½ cup mayonnaise
3 Tblsp horseradish sauce
1 tsp Louisana hot sauce or tobasco
¼ cup ketchup
Mix thoroughly.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Family Memories -Part 3
My mom, Rachel Marguerite Anderson and my dad, John Eddie Gatewood were married in March of 1940 (I think). One of Mom’s favorite stories is about their wedding:
There is a little dirt road just a mile or so east of Bancroft, Nebraska and if she was ever in the car with you when you drove past it, she’d point to a spot on that road and say, “That’s where I got married.” You might think she would go on to say that there used to be a house there or a church or something, but, no – they got married in a parked car on a dirt road outside of Bancroft. It seems the ceremony was held at her Mom & Dad’s in Lyons, but when the minister sat down to sign the Marriage License, he saw that it had been purchased in Cuming County, rather than Burt County (which is where Lyons is). He said the marriage wouldn’t be legal unless it took place in Cuming County. So Mom and Dad, their two witnesses and the minister got into a car, drove til they crossed the county line and repeated the vows.
Their first night together was spent on Dad’s farm west of Decatur, NE and thunderstorms were rolling through the area. Dad had a big old mutt of a dog who was afraid of storms and when Mom woke up in the morning, there was this big, wet dog in bed with them. Apparently, the winds had blown open the door of the house and he came in and made himself at home.
They had six children - of which I am the youngest. The first four were born two years apart each – two girls in April, (one on Palm Sunday and one on Easter) two boys in October, and then two girls in November. Four years each separates the two youngest from the boys. The two oldest were “The Big Girls”, then “The Boys” and then “The Little Girls.”
I think I was about 4 years old (in 1959) when Mom took a job ‘off the place.’ She went to work for the Campbell Soup Company in Fremont, carpooling in to Fremont with a group of ladies from Lyons. Her job there was to bone the chicken.
Dad and Mom farmed until about 1962. We moved to Lyons, Nebraska and Dad became a jack-of-all-trades. I remember some of the jobs he had, not necessarily in chronological order:
The first one I remember was at the creamery in Lyons. It was only about a block away from where we lived. They processed milk into powdered milk. I think it was called the Lyons Creamery. One of the perks of this job was that once in a while he would bring home a pint jar of pure, thick cream – literally the “crème de la crème.” I still like the taste of cream.
I don’t know how long he worked there, but eventually, Dad went to work for the Morrison & Quirk Company at an alfalfa mill near Bancroft. They dehydrated alfalfa hay into pellets. They trucked in the hay and dumped it into huge, round furnaces that glowed red in the night and if you stood too close to the furnace, the heat sucked your breath away. Sometimes, he worked night shift and my sister and I (The Little Girls) would go with Mom to take him a lunch around midnight. They had a pop machine in the shop/office area. It was a big, oval tank with glass bottles of pop sunk into ice cold water. Each brand of pop had its own ‘alley,’ where the bottles were hung from the neck. You’d put your money in and slide your selection through a little ‘gate’ at one end. If you touched this pop machine when you were barefooted, you got an electric shock! The other clear memory I have of the alfalfa mill was the smell of the burning hay and the green dust that clung to Dad’s overalls.
Mom continued to work outside the home. After Campbell Soup, she waited on tables or cooked in some of the local cafes in Lyons. She also worked in the kitchen at the brand new nursing home -the Logan Valley Manor- when it opened in the early 70s.
During the racing season, Dad worked for his father as a thoroughbred race horse trainer, which I told about in an earlier post (February 22, 2007)
Mom and Dad both took jobs with a company called Golden Sun Frozen Foods in the late 60s. They made frozen fried chicken there and Dad drove the truck, making deliveries all over Nebraska, probably Iowa, and sometimes to Denver.
One thing Mom and Dad liked to do was bowl. Lyons had a ten-lane bowling alley – “Lyons Lanes.” Mom was on a women’s league, Dad was on at least one men’s league and they bowled together every Friday on a mixed league. (I still have his bowling shirt.) Dad won a traveling trophy for high score or something two years in a row and I used to love to look at the little gold guy bowling with dad’s name – twice - at the top of the list of engraved names. It sat on top of our piano.
We went to church most every Sunday at the Lyons Methodist. Mom taught Sunday school for several years, but Dad usually stayed home and watched “Bowling for Dollars” on TV. His cousin, Joe Gatewood, was a frequent contestant and even won a brand new convertible. Mom always slow-cooked a beef roast with potatoes and carrots and a jello salad for Sunday dinner.
Their favorite place to go out to eat on a Saturday night was the Green Lantern in Decatur, a steak house that still serves good food and drink.
Dad and Mom welcomed “just passing through town, so we thought we’d drop by” visitors with a pot of coffee and conversation. Frequent guests included Dad’s cousin and his wife, Ray and Tamsey Gatewood and the widow of Mom’s brother, Milton, whom I knew as Aunt Babe; their close friends Tom and Marybelle Connealy. But by far, their favorite guests were their grandchildren. Both The Big Girls and The Boys were out on their own by this time and they all started presenting Dad and Mom with grandchildren in rapid succession. The oldest two grandkids never lived near enough to just “drop in”, but the rest were in Lincoln or Oakland, Nebraska. Of all of the grandkids, I think Cindy and Tammie would rank among Dad’s favorites. I remember him playing “Peek-a-boo” or “I’m gonna GIT you” or tickling them and singing a falsetto “Gitchy gitchy goo” with them until they were giggling and squealing.
One mild day in September of 1969, Dad set out in the Golden Sun truck to make a delivery to Denver. While parked at the loading dock in Denver, he was struck down by a massive heart attack and died instantly. He was 56; I was 13. Mom was widowed at the age of 51 and finished raising The Little Girls alone. She continued her life much the same way as she had when Dad was with her; working, bowling, going to church, welcoming visitors and enjoying her grandchildren -19 of them by the time we were all finished (21 when you count the two already in heaven).
One of the things she especially enjoyed in her later years was the local Senior Center., where she ate lunch most every day, played cards and delivered meals to “those old folks” who couldn’t get out. She was in her 70s at the time. Several of these Senior citizens formed a “Kitchen Band” and they played kazooes (a piece of paper wrapped around a fine tooth comb), pots and pans, an old washboard and Mom, of course, on the piano.
When Alzheimers began to rob Mom of her memories, she made a heroic effort to hold onto the names of her children. Most of us, she remembered by where we lived: “the one from Omaha,” or “the one in Norfolk.” I was always “the one with the horses.”
She died in September of 2005 in a nursing home in Omaha, two of her daughters at her bedside. I had gone home only hours before, intending to return in the early morning. The home, St. Joseph’s Villa, was a converted hospital. It may have been the same one her own mother was in when she passed away in 1962.
Well, my friend, your simple question several days ago, “What are your family memories?” has opened a floodgate. Thank you for doing that. I miss my folks, but writing these things down brings them back to life for me, and, hopefully, for anyone who reads this.
(To be continued)
My mom, Rachel Marguerite Anderson and my dad, John Eddie Gatewood were married in March of 1940 (I think). One of Mom’s favorite stories is about their wedding:
There is a little dirt road just a mile or so east of Bancroft, Nebraska and if she was ever in the car with you when you drove past it, she’d point to a spot on that road and say, “That’s where I got married.” You might think she would go on to say that there used to be a house there or a church or something, but, no – they got married in a parked car on a dirt road outside of Bancroft. It seems the ceremony was held at her Mom & Dad’s in Lyons, but when the minister sat down to sign the Marriage License, he saw that it had been purchased in Cuming County, rather than Burt County (which is where Lyons is). He said the marriage wouldn’t be legal unless it took place in Cuming County. So Mom and Dad, their two witnesses and the minister got into a car, drove til they crossed the county line and repeated the vows.
Their first night together was spent on Dad’s farm west of Decatur, NE and thunderstorms were rolling through the area. Dad had a big old mutt of a dog who was afraid of storms and when Mom woke up in the morning, there was this big, wet dog in bed with them. Apparently, the winds had blown open the door of the house and he came in and made himself at home.
They had six children - of which I am the youngest. The first four were born two years apart each – two girls in April, (one on Palm Sunday and one on Easter) two boys in October, and then two girls in November. Four years each separates the two youngest from the boys. The two oldest were “The Big Girls”, then “The Boys” and then “The Little Girls.”
I think I was about 4 years old (in 1959) when Mom took a job ‘off the place.’ She went to work for the Campbell Soup Company in Fremont, carpooling in to Fremont with a group of ladies from Lyons. Her job there was to bone the chicken.
Dad and Mom farmed until about 1962. We moved to Lyons, Nebraska and Dad became a jack-of-all-trades. I remember some of the jobs he had, not necessarily in chronological order:
The first one I remember was at the creamery in Lyons. It was only about a block away from where we lived. They processed milk into powdered milk. I think it was called the Lyons Creamery. One of the perks of this job was that once in a while he would bring home a pint jar of pure, thick cream – literally the “crème de la crème.” I still like the taste of cream.
I don’t know how long he worked there, but eventually, Dad went to work for the Morrison & Quirk Company at an alfalfa mill near Bancroft. They dehydrated alfalfa hay into pellets. They trucked in the hay and dumped it into huge, round furnaces that glowed red in the night and if you stood too close to the furnace, the heat sucked your breath away. Sometimes, he worked night shift and my sister and I (The Little Girls) would go with Mom to take him a lunch around midnight. They had a pop machine in the shop/office area. It was a big, oval tank with glass bottles of pop sunk into ice cold water. Each brand of pop had its own ‘alley,’ where the bottles were hung from the neck. You’d put your money in and slide your selection through a little ‘gate’ at one end. If you touched this pop machine when you were barefooted, you got an electric shock! The other clear memory I have of the alfalfa mill was the smell of the burning hay and the green dust that clung to Dad’s overalls.
Mom continued to work outside the home. After Campbell Soup, she waited on tables or cooked in some of the local cafes in Lyons. She also worked in the kitchen at the brand new nursing home -the Logan Valley Manor- when it opened in the early 70s.
During the racing season, Dad worked for his father as a thoroughbred race horse trainer, which I told about in an earlier post (February 22, 2007)
Mom and Dad both took jobs with a company called Golden Sun Frozen Foods in the late 60s. They made frozen fried chicken there and Dad drove the truck, making deliveries all over Nebraska, probably Iowa, and sometimes to Denver.
One thing Mom and Dad liked to do was bowl. Lyons had a ten-lane bowling alley – “Lyons Lanes.” Mom was on a women’s league, Dad was on at least one men’s league and they bowled together every Friday on a mixed league. (I still have his bowling shirt.) Dad won a traveling trophy for high score or something two years in a row and I used to love to look at the little gold guy bowling with dad’s name – twice - at the top of the list of engraved names. It sat on top of our piano.
We went to church most every Sunday at the Lyons Methodist. Mom taught Sunday school for several years, but Dad usually stayed home and watched “Bowling for Dollars” on TV. His cousin, Joe Gatewood, was a frequent contestant and even won a brand new convertible. Mom always slow-cooked a beef roast with potatoes and carrots and a jello salad for Sunday dinner.
Their favorite place to go out to eat on a Saturday night was the Green Lantern in Decatur, a steak house that still serves good food and drink.
Dad and Mom welcomed “just passing through town, so we thought we’d drop by” visitors with a pot of coffee and conversation. Frequent guests included Dad’s cousin and his wife, Ray and Tamsey Gatewood and the widow of Mom’s brother, Milton, whom I knew as Aunt Babe; their close friends Tom and Marybelle Connealy. But by far, their favorite guests were their grandchildren. Both The Big Girls and The Boys were out on their own by this time and they all started presenting Dad and Mom with grandchildren in rapid succession. The oldest two grandkids never lived near enough to just “drop in”, but the rest were in Lincoln or Oakland, Nebraska. Of all of the grandkids, I think Cindy and Tammie would rank among Dad’s favorites. I remember him playing “Peek-a-boo” or “I’m gonna GIT you” or tickling them and singing a falsetto “Gitchy gitchy goo” with them until they were giggling and squealing.
One mild day in September of 1969, Dad set out in the Golden Sun truck to make a delivery to Denver. While parked at the loading dock in Denver, he was struck down by a massive heart attack and died instantly. He was 56; I was 13. Mom was widowed at the age of 51 and finished raising The Little Girls alone. She continued her life much the same way as she had when Dad was with her; working, bowling, going to church, welcoming visitors and enjoying her grandchildren -19 of them by the time we were all finished (21 when you count the two already in heaven).
One of the things she especially enjoyed in her later years was the local Senior Center., where she ate lunch most every day, played cards and delivered meals to “those old folks” who couldn’t get out. She was in her 70s at the time. Several of these Senior citizens formed a “Kitchen Band” and they played kazooes (a piece of paper wrapped around a fine tooth comb), pots and pans, an old washboard and Mom, of course, on the piano.
When Alzheimers began to rob Mom of her memories, she made a heroic effort to hold onto the names of her children. Most of us, she remembered by where we lived: “the one from Omaha,” or “the one in Norfolk.” I was always “the one with the horses.”
She died in September of 2005 in a nursing home in Omaha, two of her daughters at her bedside. I had gone home only hours before, intending to return in the early morning. The home, St. Joseph’s Villa, was a converted hospital. It may have been the same one her own mother was in when she passed away in 1962.
Well, my friend, your simple question several days ago, “What are your family memories?” has opened a floodgate. Thank you for doing that. I miss my folks, but writing these things down brings them back to life for me, and, hopefully, for anyone who reads this.
(To be continued)
Monday, March 05, 2007
And speaking of blizzards…
The five most repeated words in the Bible are “And it came to pass…”, in other words, it didn’t come to stay. However, the March 2007 Blizzard managed to stay for three days.
Our gravel road runs east/west and the wind kept it cleared, right down to the gravel, except where there were trees. The north/south county road (a blacktop) was a whole different story. Drifts up to a quarter mile long and up to six feet were quite common. Even when they were cleared by the snow removal equipment, they didn’t stay open for long due the extremely high winds.
All four of us (how in the heck that happened is a miracle) were at home when it started and we just stayed there for four days. Our power was out for about three hours on Thursday morning – YIKES! No TV or sewing machine L.
Every time someone was supposed to report for work somewhere, we’d set out in the four-wheel drive and get turned back at the first drift. We found one stranded lady Saturday morning around 7:30 in a small car. She was buried up to her roof, in the middle of a drift that was about 40 feet long. She had her cell phone with her and her husband was on the way with a tractor to pull her out. She reasoned that she had already missed two days of work and was desperate to get out. She said she had already made it two miles and didn’t realize how deep and solid the snow was until it was too late. She had been there fewer than 15 minutes when we found her, but her tire tracks were already covered over with snow.
We finally made it all the way to town late Saturday morning, but I almost didn’t make it home, because although the snow had stopped, the winds were still keeping the roads drifted shut.
The winds diminished Saturday night and we made it to church Sunday morning and even made it into Omaha for a movie Sunday night.
We have 6-10 foot drifts all over our place and yet in some spots, the ground is bare. I think the snowfall total was somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 inches. The temps are staying above freezing now, so the meltdown is well underway.
Now our creek is on the rise. Wish me luck!
The worst of it was – no access to email or blogs!!
It’s so nice to be back in the world again.
The five most repeated words in the Bible are “And it came to pass…”, in other words, it didn’t come to stay. However, the March 2007 Blizzard managed to stay for three days.
Our gravel road runs east/west and the wind kept it cleared, right down to the gravel, except where there were trees. The north/south county road (a blacktop) was a whole different story. Drifts up to a quarter mile long and up to six feet were quite common. Even when they were cleared by the snow removal equipment, they didn’t stay open for long due the extremely high winds.
All four of us (how in the heck that happened is a miracle) were at home when it started and we just stayed there for four days. Our power was out for about three hours on Thursday morning – YIKES! No TV or sewing machine L.
Every time someone was supposed to report for work somewhere, we’d set out in the four-wheel drive and get turned back at the first drift. We found one stranded lady Saturday morning around 7:30 in a small car. She was buried up to her roof, in the middle of a drift that was about 40 feet long. She had her cell phone with her and her husband was on the way with a tractor to pull her out. She reasoned that she had already missed two days of work and was desperate to get out. She said she had already made it two miles and didn’t realize how deep and solid the snow was until it was too late. She had been there fewer than 15 minutes when we found her, but her tire tracks were already covered over with snow.
We finally made it all the way to town late Saturday morning, but I almost didn’t make it home, because although the snow had stopped, the winds were still keeping the roads drifted shut.
The winds diminished Saturday night and we made it to church Sunday morning and even made it into Omaha for a movie Sunday night.
We have 6-10 foot drifts all over our place and yet in some spots, the ground is bare. I think the snowfall total was somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 inches. The temps are staying above freezing now, so the meltdown is well underway.
Now our creek is on the rise. Wish me luck!
The worst of it was – no access to email or blogs!!
It’s so nice to be back in the world again.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Family stories – Continued
Now for my mom’s side of the family:
My mother’s mother, Clara Mathilde Morrell, “Tillie” was born and raised in Sweden. In 1891, when she was 11 years old, she came to Portland, Oregon to be an Au Pair girl for her stepsister. She finished her schooling there and the first English words she learned were taught her by her brother-in-law; “Open de door.” She stayed in Portland, working as a nanny until the age of 19, when she traveled back to Sweden to visit her family.
When she returned to America, she went to Cambridge, Minnesota to stay with relatives. I don’t know how long she stayed there, but eventually, she traveled to Lyons, Nebraska to visit her cousins.
My grandfather, Andrew (A.G.) Anderson, came to this country from Sweden in the 1870s. They farmed north of Lyons, Nebraska and he was the youngest of 9 (I think) brothers and sisters. One brother had died in Sweden. Grandpa was about 8 years old when, in January, the Blizzard of 1888 swept across this continent. It became known as the “Schoolchildren’s Blizzard” because of the sudden onset of the storm, the ferocity of it, and the time of day it hit. Many school aged children were on their way home, or stranded at school and many, sadly, perished. Grandpa was in school and if I remember right, he either stayed at school or made it to a friend’s home to wait it out. His parents had no idea where he was during that whole time, but just “trusted God to keep him safe.”
A.G. was one of the cousins Tillie came to visit and Lillie Breuer, who was there when it happened, says when they met each other, it was “love at first sight.” (Yes, they were cousins, but at that time, it was not that unusual or unseemly for cousins to marry. And all four of their children were completely normal. No albinos or anything like that.) Grandma said that the moment she walked into their house, she felt like she had come home.
They were married in 1904 and my mom, Rachel Marguerite, their youngest, was born in 1918. Mom never learned to speak Swedish as her folks never spoke it in their home, although traces of it are in our family dialect. Mom always said “Ja” for yes, tho she wouldn’t have considered it speaking Swedish. She learned to count to 10 and I remember very clearly, she and Grandma both said “oj, oj, oj” (pronounced ‘oy’) instead of the more American “uh oh,” whenever they were disgusted or dismayed with something (usually something naughty I was saying or doing). I still say, “Ja” for yes, usually without thinking about it and didn’t even notice it until someone pointed it out to me.
I never knew Grandpa, except through pictures and stories as he died a few years before I was born. They farmed a couple miles north of Lyons, in the Jefferson neighborhood, and raised two daughters and two sons and then retired to a home in town.
Grandma was a very devoted Christian and said Grandpa was, too. She had her share of troubles, including a couple of nervous breakdowns, which put her in a hospital. In 1926 they took a road trip with Grandpa’s brother, Sherman, driving in a Model T to California and back. It took them six weeks.
She was one of the founders of the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid, a neighborhood group of women who met monthly for I don’t know how long – probably a century or more before they ran out of women. I like to think of them the as original MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group. The group was a source of friendship and moral support for all the homemakers in the neighborhood. One of the ladies, Bertha Pearson once shared this memory about the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid: Shortly after Bertha’s son, Duane, was born, she got herself ready and probably baked a batch of brownies or cookies to contribute to the lunch and set out with the horse and buggy to attend a meeting at Grandma’s. Grandma met her at the door, with a very surprised look on her face and said, “Bertha, where is the baby?!” It was only then Bertha realized she had left Duane at home, so she drove home in a panic and found him sleeping peacefully right where she had left him.
My mom was a member of the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid when she was raising her family and I remember going to meetings with her and Grandma when I was a little girl. The names of the families some back to me through a fog of time and distance: Krogers, Pearsons, Johnsons, Inager and LOTS of Andersons. The smell of coffee, minced ham sandwiches and chocolate cake can take me right back to a Jefferson neighborhood kitchen. They usually had a Bible Study or a devotional reading, probably a homemaking lesson of some kind and then they sang, my mom played piano for them. I still have some of the songbooks they used.
In her late years, Grandma suffered from ulcerated varicose veins in her legs. She was undergoing an amputation in 1962 and died on the operating table. It broke my mother’s heart because Grandma had asked her to “please don’t let them take my legs.” But the decision was left to Mom (her surviving siblings lived in Colorado and California at the time) and I know she felt it would be for the best. And anyway, it was only Grandma’s body that died – her spirit lives on with her Saviour.
Well, I see that this posting has gone completely out of control, so I’ll stop here and TRY to get on to the next generation next time.
Now for my mom’s side of the family:
My mother’s mother, Clara Mathilde Morrell, “Tillie” was born and raised in Sweden. In 1891, when she was 11 years old, she came to Portland, Oregon to be an Au Pair girl for her stepsister. She finished her schooling there and the first English words she learned were taught her by her brother-in-law; “Open de door.” She stayed in Portland, working as a nanny until the age of 19, when she traveled back to Sweden to visit her family.
When she returned to America, she went to Cambridge, Minnesota to stay with relatives. I don’t know how long she stayed there, but eventually, she traveled to Lyons, Nebraska to visit her cousins.
My grandfather, Andrew (A.G.) Anderson, came to this country from Sweden in the 1870s. They farmed north of Lyons, Nebraska and he was the youngest of 9 (I think) brothers and sisters. One brother had died in Sweden. Grandpa was about 8 years old when, in January, the Blizzard of 1888 swept across this continent. It became known as the “Schoolchildren’s Blizzard” because of the sudden onset of the storm, the ferocity of it, and the time of day it hit. Many school aged children were on their way home, or stranded at school and many, sadly, perished. Grandpa was in school and if I remember right, he either stayed at school or made it to a friend’s home to wait it out. His parents had no idea where he was during that whole time, but just “trusted God to keep him safe.”
A.G. was one of the cousins Tillie came to visit and Lillie Breuer, who was there when it happened, says when they met each other, it was “love at first sight.” (Yes, they were cousins, but at that time, it was not that unusual or unseemly for cousins to marry. And all four of their children were completely normal. No albinos or anything like that.) Grandma said that the moment she walked into their house, she felt like she had come home.
They were married in 1904 and my mom, Rachel Marguerite, their youngest, was born in 1918. Mom never learned to speak Swedish as her folks never spoke it in their home, although traces of it are in our family dialect. Mom always said “Ja” for yes, tho she wouldn’t have considered it speaking Swedish. She learned to count to 10 and I remember very clearly, she and Grandma both said “oj, oj, oj” (pronounced ‘oy’) instead of the more American “uh oh,” whenever they were disgusted or dismayed with something (usually something naughty I was saying or doing). I still say, “Ja” for yes, usually without thinking about it and didn’t even notice it until someone pointed it out to me.
I never knew Grandpa, except through pictures and stories as he died a few years before I was born. They farmed a couple miles north of Lyons, in the Jefferson neighborhood, and raised two daughters and two sons and then retired to a home in town.
Grandma was a very devoted Christian and said Grandpa was, too. She had her share of troubles, including a couple of nervous breakdowns, which put her in a hospital. In 1926 they took a road trip with Grandpa’s brother, Sherman, driving in a Model T to California and back. It took them six weeks.
She was one of the founders of the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid, a neighborhood group of women who met monthly for I don’t know how long – probably a century or more before they ran out of women. I like to think of them the as original MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group. The group was a source of friendship and moral support for all the homemakers in the neighborhood. One of the ladies, Bertha Pearson once shared this memory about the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid: Shortly after Bertha’s son, Duane, was born, she got herself ready and probably baked a batch of brownies or cookies to contribute to the lunch and set out with the horse and buggy to attend a meeting at Grandma’s. Grandma met her at the door, with a very surprised look on her face and said, “Bertha, where is the baby?!” It was only then Bertha realized she had left Duane at home, so she drove home in a panic and found him sleeping peacefully right where she had left him.
My mom was a member of the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid when she was raising her family and I remember going to meetings with her and Grandma when I was a little girl. The names of the families some back to me through a fog of time and distance: Krogers, Pearsons, Johnsons, Inager and LOTS of Andersons. The smell of coffee, minced ham sandwiches and chocolate cake can take me right back to a Jefferson neighborhood kitchen. They usually had a Bible Study or a devotional reading, probably a homemaking lesson of some kind and then they sang, my mom played piano for them. I still have some of the songbooks they used.
In her late years, Grandma suffered from ulcerated varicose veins in her legs. She was undergoing an amputation in 1962 and died on the operating table. It broke my mother’s heart because Grandma had asked her to “please don’t let them take my legs.” But the decision was left to Mom (her surviving siblings lived in Colorado and California at the time) and I know she felt it would be for the best. And anyway, it was only Grandma’s body that died – her spirit lives on with her Saviour.
Well, I see that this posting has gone completely out of control, so I’ll stop here and TRY to get on to the next generation next time.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Movie Review
I have a new favorite movie.
Amazing Grace, starring Ioan Gruffudd, is the story of Great Britain’s MP (Member of Parliament) William Wilberforce, whose passionate persistence ended the slave trade in Great Britain in 1807. The movie chronicles his efforts as an abolitionist, which began in 1789. The amazing thing about Amazing Grace is that this movie depicts committed, repentant Christians as something other than wild-eyed, witch-burning fanatics. William Wilberforce followed God’s call on his life to use his position as MP to promote social reforms. And he did it all with – yes, AMAZING Grace. The movie touches briefly on Wilberforce’s other pursuits, including his involvement with the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, presenting an accurate portrait of a man who was willing to speak for those who could not speak for themselves. (Although not included in the movie – you can’t cover EVERYTHING in two hours - Wilberforce also was instrumental in opening India to Christian Missionaries, helped found the British and Foreign Bible Society, and worked for the relief of boy chimney sweeps. He wrote a book challenging people to re-examine their Christian faith and give it its proper place in their lives.)
This is one of the most inspiring works to come out of Hollywood since The Ten Commandments – the old one with Charleton Heston. If I may digress, (and of course, I may – this is my blog) I had high hopes for End of the Spear, which was a movie about Jim Eliot, Ed McCully, Roger Youderian, Peter Fleming and Nate Saint, missionaries who were martyred trying to take the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the Auca people of Ecuador. While the story seemed accurate, they managed to tell it all without once mentioning the name of Jesus.
Amazing Grace also offers viewers an honest introduction to other Christian men, such as Thomas Clarkson, who followed “a direct revelation from God ordering me to devote my life to abolishing the trade.” (Quote not in the movie, but in a historical document). He worked for abolition and emancipation throughout his life. We also meet John Newton, the ex-slaveship captain who wrote the beloved Hymn “Amazing Grace.” Newton was a force of encouragement to Wilberforce throughout his 18 year campaign to end the British slave trade.
Albert Finney as Newton speaks the words that are at the heart of Christian belief and in the heart of every Christian; “I am certain of two things: that I am a great sinner and Jesus Christ is a Great Savior.”
I highly recommend this movie.
I have a new favorite movie.
Amazing Grace, starring Ioan Gruffudd, is the story of Great Britain’s MP (Member of Parliament) William Wilberforce, whose passionate persistence ended the slave trade in Great Britain in 1807. The movie chronicles his efforts as an abolitionist, which began in 1789. The amazing thing about Amazing Grace is that this movie depicts committed, repentant Christians as something other than wild-eyed, witch-burning fanatics. William Wilberforce followed God’s call on his life to use his position as MP to promote social reforms. And he did it all with – yes, AMAZING Grace. The movie touches briefly on Wilberforce’s other pursuits, including his involvement with the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, presenting an accurate portrait of a man who was willing to speak for those who could not speak for themselves. (Although not included in the movie – you can’t cover EVERYTHING in two hours - Wilberforce also was instrumental in opening India to Christian Missionaries, helped found the British and Foreign Bible Society, and worked for the relief of boy chimney sweeps. He wrote a book challenging people to re-examine their Christian faith and give it its proper place in their lives.)
This is one of the most inspiring works to come out of Hollywood since The Ten Commandments – the old one with Charleton Heston. If I may digress, (and of course, I may – this is my blog) I had high hopes for End of the Spear, which was a movie about Jim Eliot, Ed McCully, Roger Youderian, Peter Fleming and Nate Saint, missionaries who were martyred trying to take the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the Auca people of Ecuador. While the story seemed accurate, they managed to tell it all without once mentioning the name of Jesus.
Amazing Grace also offers viewers an honest introduction to other Christian men, such as Thomas Clarkson, who followed “a direct revelation from God ordering me to devote my life to abolishing the trade.” (Quote not in the movie, but in a historical document). He worked for abolition and emancipation throughout his life. We also meet John Newton, the ex-slaveship captain who wrote the beloved Hymn “Amazing Grace.” Newton was a force of encouragement to Wilberforce throughout his 18 year campaign to end the British slave trade.
Albert Finney as Newton speaks the words that are at the heart of Christian belief and in the heart of every Christian; “I am certain of two things: that I am a great sinner and Jesus Christ is a Great Savior.”
I highly recommend this movie.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Family Stories
Inspired by LaDawn at http://Clare-panton.blogspot.com
I love my great Grandpa Joel Gatewood. I’ve never met him; he died 36 years before I was born, but he lives on in the stories that come to me like gifts from those who did know him.
The most famous family legend about him is that he fought for the North during the Great War of the Rebellion (American Civil War). Great Grandpa Joel was born in Illinois. After the War, he married Great Grandma Almina (Zorn) and found his way to Decatur, Nebraska some time around 1870, where he lived and worked for the rest of his life. He farmed for awhile; had a stallion named Pruitt that I assume he bred for stud fees and he piloted the Decatur Ferry across the Missouri River for many years.
One day, he went into town and got his hair cut and his long, white beard shaved off. He went home, knocked on the front door and asked if the lady of the house had any work she could hire him to do. She replied that no, she didn’t. He thanked her politely and turned to leave. As he strode away, no doubt chuckling to himself, Great Grandma recognized his gait, realized who he was and yelled to him. “I don’t like you that way! Let it grow back!” I’ve never seen a photo of him without his beard.
Joel and Almina had 11 children, among them my Grandpa; TW Gatewood. Grandpa married Agnes Connealy in 1904 and they settled down to farm near Decatur, raising registered Duroc breeding stock hogs. They had five children, one died in infancy. My Dad, John Eddie was born to them in 1912. My Aunt Grace tells me that they held a hog auction twice a year and Grandma would fix a big noon meal for the family and the auctioneers. After dinner, they brought out their guitars, fiddles and whatever other portable instrument they had and sang for a few hours. Aunt Grace hated to go to school on those days because she knew she’d miss out on the singing.
The family lost everything in a house fire, I think in the 1930s? They lived the remainder of that winter in the chicken house. In the 40s, Grandpa went to work as a Thoroughbred race horse trainer. One of the women he worked for gave him a horse named Merry Bid and said, “If he ever wins anything, you can give me $100.00.” Well, Merry Bid did indeed win, more than once and that was the start of his stables. Grandpa & Grandma traveled the racing circuit with their horses and when they got to the next event, Grandma cleaned out the back of the stock truck and that’s where they lived until it was time to move again. They traveled to Florida, Chicago, Phoenix, Denver, South Sioux City, NE, St. Joseph, Missouri, Columbus, NE and Grandpa is listed among the founders of the Aksarben race track (now gone) in Omaha. My older brothers and cousins traveled with them as grooms, but I was born too late to get in on that privilege. I would have LOVED it. Dad trained for him for awhile and some of my favorite childhood memories are of visits to the race track to watch Grandpa’s horses run. Grandma tried to teach me how to pick a winner by reading a racing form, and I remember asking her a question that just about made her bust a gut laughing. I don’t remember what I asked her, but that was the end of my racing form lessons.
In the late 1960s, Grandpa was nearly killed by a horse in an accident – he got a rope wrapped around his hand was dragged, breaking his pelvis. He was given Last Rites by a Priest at the hospital in St. Joe, but fortunately for all of us, he recovered. He was a very faithful Catholic after that incident and attended Mass and Confession whenever he could. He remained faithful to his love for horses and horseracing, but he and Grandma eventually gave up the vagabond lifestyle and settled into an apartment in Lyons, NE. One day, in 1971, he got up around 4 AM to get ready to go to the Columbus races. Grandma heard him fall in bathroom, where he died suddenly of a heart attack. Mom went over there as soon as Grandma called and saw Grandpa where he’d fallen. She said he was lying on his side with his hand under his head, with a very peaceful look on his face.
I’ll stop here with my family stories for now. I’ll move on to the following generations next time.
Inspired by LaDawn at http://Clare-panton.blogspot.com
I love my great Grandpa Joel Gatewood. I’ve never met him; he died 36 years before I was born, but he lives on in the stories that come to me like gifts from those who did know him.
The most famous family legend about him is that he fought for the North during the Great War of the Rebellion (American Civil War). Great Grandpa Joel was born in Illinois. After the War, he married Great Grandma Almina (Zorn) and found his way to Decatur, Nebraska some time around 1870, where he lived and worked for the rest of his life. He farmed for awhile; had a stallion named Pruitt that I assume he bred for stud fees and he piloted the Decatur Ferry across the Missouri River for many years.
One day, he went into town and got his hair cut and his long, white beard shaved off. He went home, knocked on the front door and asked if the lady of the house had any work she could hire him to do. She replied that no, she didn’t. He thanked her politely and turned to leave. As he strode away, no doubt chuckling to himself, Great Grandma recognized his gait, realized who he was and yelled to him. “I don’t like you that way! Let it grow back!” I’ve never seen a photo of him without his beard.
Joel and Almina had 11 children, among them my Grandpa; TW Gatewood. Grandpa married Agnes Connealy in 1904 and they settled down to farm near Decatur, raising registered Duroc breeding stock hogs. They had five children, one died in infancy. My Dad, John Eddie was born to them in 1912. My Aunt Grace tells me that they held a hog auction twice a year and Grandma would fix a big noon meal for the family and the auctioneers. After dinner, they brought out their guitars, fiddles and whatever other portable instrument they had and sang for a few hours. Aunt Grace hated to go to school on those days because she knew she’d miss out on the singing.
The family lost everything in a house fire, I think in the 1930s? They lived the remainder of that winter in the chicken house. In the 40s, Grandpa went to work as a Thoroughbred race horse trainer. One of the women he worked for gave him a horse named Merry Bid and said, “If he ever wins anything, you can give me $100.00.” Well, Merry Bid did indeed win, more than once and that was the start of his stables. Grandpa & Grandma traveled the racing circuit with their horses and when they got to the next event, Grandma cleaned out the back of the stock truck and that’s where they lived until it was time to move again. They traveled to Florida, Chicago, Phoenix, Denver, South Sioux City, NE, St. Joseph, Missouri, Columbus, NE and Grandpa is listed among the founders of the Aksarben race track (now gone) in Omaha. My older brothers and cousins traveled with them as grooms, but I was born too late to get in on that privilege. I would have LOVED it. Dad trained for him for awhile and some of my favorite childhood memories are of visits to the race track to watch Grandpa’s horses run. Grandma tried to teach me how to pick a winner by reading a racing form, and I remember asking her a question that just about made her bust a gut laughing. I don’t remember what I asked her, but that was the end of my racing form lessons.
In the late 1960s, Grandpa was nearly killed by a horse in an accident – he got a rope wrapped around his hand was dragged, breaking his pelvis. He was given Last Rites by a Priest at the hospital in St. Joe, but fortunately for all of us, he recovered. He was a very faithful Catholic after that incident and attended Mass and Confession whenever he could. He remained faithful to his love for horses and horseracing, but he and Grandma eventually gave up the vagabond lifestyle and settled into an apartment in Lyons, NE. One day, in 1971, he got up around 4 AM to get ready to go to the Columbus races. Grandma heard him fall in bathroom, where he died suddenly of a heart attack. Mom went over there as soon as Grandma called and saw Grandpa where he’d fallen. She said he was lying on his side with his hand under his head, with a very peaceful look on his face.
I’ll stop here with my family stories for now. I’ll move on to the following generations next time.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
My Famous Barn: Part II
There is a new version of the Roberts Dairy Commercial circulating. (See the Jauary 18, 2007 post if you need more details).
This time, the actress appears with two children and she says to the cow, “You make us feel so PEPPY!” Again, at the end, (after she asks the cow for an autograph) you get a lovely shot of the landscape behind the cow, which features my wonderful barn along with the rest of our place.
With all this attention, I feel almost obligated to buy Robert’s Dairy products instead of the cheaper store brands.
There is a new version of the Roberts Dairy Commercial circulating. (See the Jauary 18, 2007 post if you need more details).
This time, the actress appears with two children and she says to the cow, “You make us feel so PEPPY!” Again, at the end, (after she asks the cow for an autograph) you get a lovely shot of the landscape behind the cow, which features my wonderful barn along with the rest of our place.
With all this attention, I feel almost obligated to buy Robert’s Dairy products instead of the cheaper store brands.
Here is a literary contribution from my daughter, Emily. The assignment was to “make a ‘to-do’ list’.
School Daze
To Do: Find the least-dirty pair of jeans in the hamper and run them twenty minutes in the dryer to give them a semblance of freshness. Do the same, if necessary, for a T-shirt. Check off everything needed for the day and check at least three times, an exercise in futility since there will be a crucial item missing at the most inopportune time. Start the car five minutes prior to departure to give it time to warm up. Use profane and abusive language when it dies anyway.
Drive 45 miles and arrive at parking lot; drive around looking for a space. Wonder if the drivers of compact sports cars who double-park will make it into heaven. Settle for the spot furthest from the exit. Board the shuttle bus and try to ignore the couple occupying one seat, joined at the lip.
Dig around for student ID at the HPER (Health Physical Education and Recreation) Building. Find it in the last pocket searched and enter. Ignore the sign in the restroom saying “This is not a dressing room” and change into workout clothes in there anyway. Begin workout. Fifteen minutes in, begin worrying about the possibility of a healthy twenty-two year old woman dropping dead of a heart attack, however remote it may seem. Sweat profusely.
After workout, change back into street clothes. Finish essay. Print out copy and check for spelling errors that have to be there, no matter what Microsoft Word is saying. Realize that the entire document is crap from start to finish and begin debating whether to write a “mercy e-mail” to the instructor, pleading sickness, emergency or just plain stupidity to get more time to write it better. Curse a basically honest nature and turn it in as is anyway.
Eat something in the convenience store: popcorn, Soup At Hand, a Nestle Crunch, an Adrenaline Rush and spend the next half hour trying to convince your stomach that it’s had supper. Fail miserably and chew gum.
Try to stay awake in class. Attempt to contribute to the discussion and pay attention when the instructor’s mouth is moving: intelligent, important words might be coming out. Fail miserably and spend the next hour texting your friend you never see anymore but makes you laugh harder at nothing than anybody else can.
Make discovery in the women’s bathroom that your hair is an unholy greasy mess. Comb through it with fingers and curse the shortsightedness that led to the abandonment of your hairbrush in favor of a lighter purse.
RUN across campus in an attempt to be on time for the next class. Do a last skim through of the assigned reading and try to ignore the rumblings from your stomach. Try not to wonder if the instructor will fail you for what you just wrote. Fail miserably. Go buy M & M’s from the vending machine; it’s been a long day and everyone knows that calories from comfort food don’t count.
Drive 45 miles home in the snow. Sing along with the radio to stay awake, pinch yourself, chew more gum, and when all else fails, turn off the heat and open a window, because this is one time miserable failure isn’t an option. Make it home and try to be quiet upon entry. Peel the contacts off your eyes. Change into forgiving pajamas with long sleeves and a blessedly loose waist. Lay awake for an hour, trying to figure out how you could’ve done better. Make promises to do better tomorrow.
Sleep. Dream; no list required.
School Daze
To Do: Find the least-dirty pair of jeans in the hamper and run them twenty minutes in the dryer to give them a semblance of freshness. Do the same, if necessary, for a T-shirt. Check off everything needed for the day and check at least three times, an exercise in futility since there will be a crucial item missing at the most inopportune time. Start the car five minutes prior to departure to give it time to warm up. Use profane and abusive language when it dies anyway.
Drive 45 miles and arrive at parking lot; drive around looking for a space. Wonder if the drivers of compact sports cars who double-park will make it into heaven. Settle for the spot furthest from the exit. Board the shuttle bus and try to ignore the couple occupying one seat, joined at the lip.
Dig around for student ID at the HPER (Health Physical Education and Recreation) Building. Find it in the last pocket searched and enter. Ignore the sign in the restroom saying “This is not a dressing room” and change into workout clothes in there anyway. Begin workout. Fifteen minutes in, begin worrying about the possibility of a healthy twenty-two year old woman dropping dead of a heart attack, however remote it may seem. Sweat profusely.
After workout, change back into street clothes. Finish essay. Print out copy and check for spelling errors that have to be there, no matter what Microsoft Word is saying. Realize that the entire document is crap from start to finish and begin debating whether to write a “mercy e-mail” to the instructor, pleading sickness, emergency or just plain stupidity to get more time to write it better. Curse a basically honest nature and turn it in as is anyway.
Eat something in the convenience store: popcorn, Soup At Hand, a Nestle Crunch, an Adrenaline Rush and spend the next half hour trying to convince your stomach that it’s had supper. Fail miserably and chew gum.
Try to stay awake in class. Attempt to contribute to the discussion and pay attention when the instructor’s mouth is moving: intelligent, important words might be coming out. Fail miserably and spend the next hour texting your friend you never see anymore but makes you laugh harder at nothing than anybody else can.
Make discovery in the women’s bathroom that your hair is an unholy greasy mess. Comb through it with fingers and curse the shortsightedness that led to the abandonment of your hairbrush in favor of a lighter purse.
RUN across campus in an attempt to be on time for the next class. Do a last skim through of the assigned reading and try to ignore the rumblings from your stomach. Try not to wonder if the instructor will fail you for what you just wrote. Fail miserably. Go buy M & M’s from the vending machine; it’s been a long day and everyone knows that calories from comfort food don’t count.
Drive 45 miles home in the snow. Sing along with the radio to stay awake, pinch yourself, chew more gum, and when all else fails, turn off the heat and open a window, because this is one time miserable failure isn’t an option. Make it home and try to be quiet upon entry. Peel the contacts off your eyes. Change into forgiving pajamas with long sleeves and a blessedly loose waist. Lay awake for an hour, trying to figure out how you could’ve done better. Make promises to do better tomorrow.
Sleep. Dream; no list required.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Todays' weather
It was just too extreme to leave a single comment on the side of the page.
When I stepped out into the predawn darkness this morning to do my chores, I was immediately made aware that I was significantly underdressed! The air temp was at 3 degrees F - the single digits I'm getting used to - but the winds were howling in from the north at around 30 mph. My goodness. It was one of those mornings that makes it hard to have a conversation because your lips and cheeks feel stiff and the wind drowns out your voice. You don't dare blink because your eyes have begun to water and they might freeze shut, so you just let the tears freeze to your cheek.
However, the barn - my famous barn - proved to be a cozy haven of warmth. I was greeted by the grateful nicker of my Bubba - who is always glad to see me at feeding time and even Lucy, my two year old who doesn't have much to say, gave me a little whinny of welcome.
Everyone should have a horse; they never expect more from you than you can give; they never chide you for being late or complain about the weather (like I just did). They carry you around no matter how badly you've gone off your diet and the most soothing sound on the planet is the nicker of welcome when they see you coming.
Because that nicker is reserved only for you.
They don't talk to just anyone, only to the person they have claimed as their own.
It was just too extreme to leave a single comment on the side of the page.
When I stepped out into the predawn darkness this morning to do my chores, I was immediately made aware that I was significantly underdressed! The air temp was at 3 degrees F - the single digits I'm getting used to - but the winds were howling in from the north at around 30 mph. My goodness. It was one of those mornings that makes it hard to have a conversation because your lips and cheeks feel stiff and the wind drowns out your voice. You don't dare blink because your eyes have begun to water and they might freeze shut, so you just let the tears freeze to your cheek.
However, the barn - my famous barn - proved to be a cozy haven of warmth. I was greeted by the grateful nicker of my Bubba - who is always glad to see me at feeding time and even Lucy, my two year old who doesn't have much to say, gave me a little whinny of welcome.
Everyone should have a horse; they never expect more from you than you can give; they never chide you for being late or complain about the weather (like I just did). They carry you around no matter how badly you've gone off your diet and the most soothing sound on the planet is the nicker of welcome when they see you coming.
Because that nicker is reserved only for you.
They don't talk to just anyone, only to the person they have claimed as their own.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
What’s up with that?
In an attempt to help them pursue their higher education goals without acquiring massive amounts of debt, my husband and I share our home with our two college student children, ages 22 and 24. Between us, we have seven full or part time jobs and four vehicles. (Five if you count the horse trailor.) The kids bounce back and forth between their jobs, classes and home like those little steel marbles in a pinball machine. The four of us rarely eat together. We don’t leave or arrive at home at the same time on any given weekday and everyone rises and retires at different hours of the day and night. On Sundays, we attend church services at two different hours.
So would someone please explain to me why it is, without fail, no fewer than two people need the bathroom at the same time!?
My youngest has been potty trained for 20 years now and we have never lived in a house that had more than one bathroom, so wouldn’t you think we would have mastered the technique of sharing it by now?
Here’s a typical scenario; it’s mid to late evening on an average weekday. The bathroom sits silently, just off the southeast corner of the kitchen. It has been unoccupied for the past eight hours. One person is working on the computer; another is at the kitchen table working a Sudoku puzzle, a third is in the living room watching TV; a fourth (me) is washing dishes. At some mysterious cue, that only contentious people can hear, one set of footsteps crosses the kitchen toward the bathroom door, someone else looks up from whatever they were doing and shouts, “WAIT! Can I use it before you get in there? I really need to go.”
The first party retorts, “I was here first, you’ll just have to wait your turn.” This is followed by the door slamming.
The one who is left waiting says, “For crying out loud, you always take forever!” and then begins to pace angrily.
“I was just getting ready to go in there,” says the one looking up from his puzzle. He abandons the Sudoku and sits with arms and legs crossed, scowling at the closed door. After a few minutes, he looks at the clock and begins to mutter curses and threats.
I stare into the wall in front of the sink and try not let anyone hear the water running as I continue my dishwashing.
Not soon enough, the sounds of flushing and hand washing filters through the closed door. The waiting person stomps to the closed door, pounds on it and shouts, “Hurry up! I’m in pain here! How long does it take one person to dry her hands?”
Much to everyone’s relief, the door finally opens and the party of the first part strolls out nonchalantly, pretending to be unaware of the weeping and gnashing of teeth she has caused by her visit to the bathroom.
This is followed by, “It’s about time!”
The third one leaps up and shouts, “WAIT! Can I use it before you get in there?”
This is followed by the door slamming again.
Maybe we should just let them go into debt….
In an attempt to help them pursue their higher education goals without acquiring massive amounts of debt, my husband and I share our home with our two college student children, ages 22 and 24. Between us, we have seven full or part time jobs and four vehicles. (Five if you count the horse trailor.) The kids bounce back and forth between their jobs, classes and home like those little steel marbles in a pinball machine. The four of us rarely eat together. We don’t leave or arrive at home at the same time on any given weekday and everyone rises and retires at different hours of the day and night. On Sundays, we attend church services at two different hours.
So would someone please explain to me why it is, without fail, no fewer than two people need the bathroom at the same time!?
My youngest has been potty trained for 20 years now and we have never lived in a house that had more than one bathroom, so wouldn’t you think we would have mastered the technique of sharing it by now?
Here’s a typical scenario; it’s mid to late evening on an average weekday. The bathroom sits silently, just off the southeast corner of the kitchen. It has been unoccupied for the past eight hours. One person is working on the computer; another is at the kitchen table working a Sudoku puzzle, a third is in the living room watching TV; a fourth (me) is washing dishes. At some mysterious cue, that only contentious people can hear, one set of footsteps crosses the kitchen toward the bathroom door, someone else looks up from whatever they were doing and shouts, “WAIT! Can I use it before you get in there? I really need to go.”
The first party retorts, “I was here first, you’ll just have to wait your turn.” This is followed by the door slamming.
The one who is left waiting says, “For crying out loud, you always take forever!” and then begins to pace angrily.
“I was just getting ready to go in there,” says the one looking up from his puzzle. He abandons the Sudoku and sits with arms and legs crossed, scowling at the closed door. After a few minutes, he looks at the clock and begins to mutter curses and threats.
I stare into the wall in front of the sink and try not let anyone hear the water running as I continue my dishwashing.
Not soon enough, the sounds of flushing and hand washing filters through the closed door. The waiting person stomps to the closed door, pounds on it and shouts, “Hurry up! I’m in pain here! How long does it take one person to dry her hands?”
Much to everyone’s relief, the door finally opens and the party of the first part strolls out nonchalantly, pretending to be unaware of the weeping and gnashing of teeth she has caused by her visit to the bathroom.
This is followed by, “It’s about time!”
The third one leaps up and shouts, “WAIT! Can I use it before you get in there?”
This is followed by the door slamming again.
Maybe we should just let them go into debt….
Monday, February 05, 2007
It was all LaDawn's idea...
What’s in a name? It’s not hard to tell,
When you think of the people you know so well.
And for those you don’t know, you can make a good guess
From the nickname they have or their email address.
The last name of Smith gets converted to Smitty
Their first names are dropped and I say, “What a pity.”
How to tell them apart for the rest of their lives?
We usually can tell from the names of their wives:
There’s Aunt Grace’s Smitty and Smitty & Jo,
How many Smittys can one person know!?
We have Smitty & Patti and Smitty & Jane,
But our favorite Smitty belongs to Elaine.
Some nicknames are given by fancy or whim,
On the spur of the moment we call her or him
By a name that recalls a moment in life,
And it sticks forever, like cheese on a knife.
If someone falls down or bumps into a wall,
He becomes “Klutz” forever, and that’s not all;
I once knew Rochelle, everyone called her “Tootie”
Her dad named her that, he thought her a cutie.
There’s Snarfy and Plum and The Big Galloot,
Jackieboy, Feather and Tuffie and Snood.
And after a pal of mine had a masectomy,
Her husband insisted on calling her “Lefty.”
We can’t chose our nicknames; that never would do,
But we do pick the one that we use on Yahoo!
All lower case, no comma or space,
Just the requisite “dot” in its proper place.
Our user I.D. can be quite revealing,
Of the things that we treasure and find appealing.
Like cdroses and whiskeymick,
The quiltingcowgirl or themaindrumstick.
I know chuckle2 and singintherain,
Browneyedpete and justplainjane.
You can guess the pielady’s expertise,
Or what wanttofish does to take ease.
Numbers jump in every now and again
As in danfred4 and singlemom10;
Or jmrogers57
Doggie2 and bluemoon11.
To hear from OldFox is always treat,
And barkingmadmoggie is really so sweet.
But some of those spammers make me want to holler
Like herbal*viagra and shopping$$fordollars.
So what’s in a name? A lot, it would seem:
Some moments past, or our future dreams
Wrapped up in the names that we like to be called;
What’s in a name’s worth way more than gold.
What’s in a name? It’s not hard to tell,
When you think of the people you know so well.
And for those you don’t know, you can make a good guess
From the nickname they have or their email address.
The last name of Smith gets converted to Smitty
Their first names are dropped and I say, “What a pity.”
How to tell them apart for the rest of their lives?
We usually can tell from the names of their wives:
There’s Aunt Grace’s Smitty and Smitty & Jo,
How many Smittys can one person know!?
We have Smitty & Patti and Smitty & Jane,
But our favorite Smitty belongs to Elaine.
Some nicknames are given by fancy or whim,
On the spur of the moment we call her or him
By a name that recalls a moment in life,
And it sticks forever, like cheese on a knife.
If someone falls down or bumps into a wall,
He becomes “Klutz” forever, and that’s not all;
I once knew Rochelle, everyone called her “Tootie”
Her dad named her that, he thought her a cutie.
There’s Snarfy and Plum and The Big Galloot,
Jackieboy, Feather and Tuffie and Snood.
And after a pal of mine had a masectomy,
Her husband insisted on calling her “Lefty.”
We can’t chose our nicknames; that never would do,
But we do pick the one that we use on Yahoo!
All lower case, no comma or space,
Just the requisite “dot” in its proper place.
Our user I.D. can be quite revealing,
Of the things that we treasure and find appealing.
Like cdroses and whiskeymick,
The quiltingcowgirl or themaindrumstick.
I know chuckle2 and singintherain,
Browneyedpete and justplainjane.
You can guess the pielady’s expertise,
Or what wanttofish does to take ease.
Numbers jump in every now and again
As in danfred4 and singlemom10;
Or jmrogers57
Doggie2 and bluemoon11.
To hear from OldFox is always treat,
And barkingmadmoggie is really so sweet.
But some of those spammers make me want to holler
Like herbal*viagra and shopping$$fordollars.
So what’s in a name? A lot, it would seem:
Some moments past, or our future dreams
Wrapped up in the names that we like to be called;
What’s in a name’s worth way more than gold.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Thoughts for Barbaro
I cried yesterday when I heard the news that Barbaro, the injured winner of the 2006 Kentucky Derby had to be put down due to laminitis. What a great loss for Thoroughbred horse racing. As I’m sure it’s true with all horse owners who have faced the same heart wrenching decision for their own faithful companions, it reminded me of times I have been involved in such a situation.
February 2, 2000 was a jewel of a day: rare and precious with unseasonable warmth and sunshine. I went to my barn to do my usual morning chores and found my 17 year old mare, Jazz, was down – on her side unable to get up. She’d been losing weight the past few weeks, but her eyes were bright and clear, her wooly coat was shiny and she was still eating, as usual. I’d taken her out for a ride about ten days ago and her energy level seemed undiminished so I mistakenly blamed her weight loss on the winter conditions and assumed she’d bounce back in the spring.
I called my trusted vet and he came as quickly as he could and treated her. He had to leave for another call, but promised to come back later, hoping to find she had responded and would be on her feet by then. She managed to struggle up off her side and get her legs under her, which gave us both hope. While he was gone, I sat with my girl, talked to her, pulled on her halter and tried to get her up. It wasn’t long before she gave me a look that said, “I’m just too tired,” and then flopped back down onto her side again. Her eyes dulled over with pain and her sprawled out legs began to “pedal” at the air. When the vet returned, I knew it was time to do the right thing. I knelt behind her, took her sweet head into my lap, looked her in the eye and said, “You are a good horse. Thank you for everything you’ve taught me. I’m sorry I was such a slow learner. God bless you. I’ll see you again someday.” The vet gave her the shot and while I watched, for a brief instant, the pain left her eye and then I sobbed as I watched the life go out of her, quickly and mercifully.
January 17, 2005 was a typical Midwestern winter day. A wild prairie wind was stirring up the frigid, below 0 F air all around us as we stood at the open end of a trailor around Morgan the Morgan, encouraging him to lift his stiff, arthritic front legs one last time to get into a trailor. When he walked, the pain was so great he was only willing to move his feet a few inches at a time, shuffling and limping along. Grazing had become a painful ordeal for him. While Janet and Chuck pulled and clucked to Morgan from the front, his vet and I grasped arms behind his rump and heaved, leaving him little choice but to bend his swollen knees and get in, which he finally did with a grunt and a sigh. Morgan stood patiently between Chuck and Janet as they looked at each other. Tears filled both their eyes they silently wished the other would volunteer to hold the lead rope. I stepped into the trailor and said, “I’ll hold him.” Relieved, they took refuge in the barn, hoping to get away from the wind and the sorrow. I spoke quietly to Morgan while the vet gave him the shot, told him he was loved deeply and that he would be missed more then anything. His head drooped, his legs wobbled a little and then he went down. When his two pasture mates, a pair of Palomino mares, heard the thundering crash his 1500 pound body made as it hit the floor of the trailor, they cried out. Their whinnying broke my heart, but Morgan’s pain was ended.
I know that the end must have been much the same for the great Barbaro. I don’t doubt for a moment that he was surrounded by people who loved him and respected him. I know they were the people he trusted to take care of him and to make the best decisions for him. And no matter how difficult it might become, they were the ones who had to do the right thing by him. I’m sure someone looked him in the eye at the very end and told him how much he was loved and how greatly he would be missed. And when they saw the pain leave his eye and the life go out of him, I hope they felt the compassion and sympathy of everyone who has ever had to watch a similar flame go out.
See you later, Barbaro. Say hi to Jazz and Morgan for me.
I cried yesterday when I heard the news that Barbaro, the injured winner of the 2006 Kentucky Derby had to be put down due to laminitis. What a great loss for Thoroughbred horse racing. As I’m sure it’s true with all horse owners who have faced the same heart wrenching decision for their own faithful companions, it reminded me of times I have been involved in such a situation.
February 2, 2000 was a jewel of a day: rare and precious with unseasonable warmth and sunshine. I went to my barn to do my usual morning chores and found my 17 year old mare, Jazz, was down – on her side unable to get up. She’d been losing weight the past few weeks, but her eyes were bright and clear, her wooly coat was shiny and she was still eating, as usual. I’d taken her out for a ride about ten days ago and her energy level seemed undiminished so I mistakenly blamed her weight loss on the winter conditions and assumed she’d bounce back in the spring.
I called my trusted vet and he came as quickly as he could and treated her. He had to leave for another call, but promised to come back later, hoping to find she had responded and would be on her feet by then. She managed to struggle up off her side and get her legs under her, which gave us both hope. While he was gone, I sat with my girl, talked to her, pulled on her halter and tried to get her up. It wasn’t long before she gave me a look that said, “I’m just too tired,” and then flopped back down onto her side again. Her eyes dulled over with pain and her sprawled out legs began to “pedal” at the air. When the vet returned, I knew it was time to do the right thing. I knelt behind her, took her sweet head into my lap, looked her in the eye and said, “You are a good horse. Thank you for everything you’ve taught me. I’m sorry I was such a slow learner. God bless you. I’ll see you again someday.” The vet gave her the shot and while I watched, for a brief instant, the pain left her eye and then I sobbed as I watched the life go out of her, quickly and mercifully.
January 17, 2005 was a typical Midwestern winter day. A wild prairie wind was stirring up the frigid, below 0 F air all around us as we stood at the open end of a trailor around Morgan the Morgan, encouraging him to lift his stiff, arthritic front legs one last time to get into a trailor. When he walked, the pain was so great he was only willing to move his feet a few inches at a time, shuffling and limping along. Grazing had become a painful ordeal for him. While Janet and Chuck pulled and clucked to Morgan from the front, his vet and I grasped arms behind his rump and heaved, leaving him little choice but to bend his swollen knees and get in, which he finally did with a grunt and a sigh. Morgan stood patiently between Chuck and Janet as they looked at each other. Tears filled both their eyes they silently wished the other would volunteer to hold the lead rope. I stepped into the trailor and said, “I’ll hold him.” Relieved, they took refuge in the barn, hoping to get away from the wind and the sorrow. I spoke quietly to Morgan while the vet gave him the shot, told him he was loved deeply and that he would be missed more then anything. His head drooped, his legs wobbled a little and then he went down. When his two pasture mates, a pair of Palomino mares, heard the thundering crash his 1500 pound body made as it hit the floor of the trailor, they cried out. Their whinnying broke my heart, but Morgan’s pain was ended.
I know that the end must have been much the same for the great Barbaro. I don’t doubt for a moment that he was surrounded by people who loved him and respected him. I know they were the people he trusted to take care of him and to make the best decisions for him. And no matter how difficult it might become, they were the ones who had to do the right thing by him. I’m sure someone looked him in the eye at the very end and told him how much he was loved and how greatly he would be missed. And when they saw the pain leave his eye and the life go out of him, I hope they felt the compassion and sympathy of everyone who has ever had to watch a similar flame go out.
See you later, Barbaro. Say hi to Jazz and Morgan for me.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
My Famous Barn
My barn and house are appearing on national American television in a new Robert’s Dairy commercial. The commercial opens with a woman smiling passionately and talking. They make us think she is accepting a marriage proposal when she says, “I choose you!” and then they pull back and we see that she is talking to a Holstein. At the very end of the commercial, you are treated to a pastoral scene of cows grazing in a pasture with a big red barn, a white farmhouse, and an assortment of outbuildings in the background.
That’s where I live. My sewing room is in the red building to the right of the house. My two horses are hidden in the barn. They weren’t allowed to be out during the filming.
Only cows. Actually only one cow. She is a 4-H cow borrowed from a neighbor and hauled in for the event.
Filming took place on a sunny day last fall. The crew that came to do the filming started pulling in about 7:30 AM – several trucks full of equipment that looked like it came from the USS Enterprise (Beam me up, Scotty!) and a catering vehicle. As I left for work, I drove past a shaded table laden with fruits, cheese, deli meats and bottles and bottles of purified water and sodas. All the exciting stuff must have happened while I was at work. They started to wrap up and leave around 5:30 PM with the last one pulling out around 7:30 that evening. I’ve often wondered where they went to the bathroom during that day. Then again, maybe I don’t want to know. There’s no evidence of it visible in the commercial. Even the cow stays tidy on camera.
The place is now blanketed in snow and the cow has long since gone home, but my gorgeous horses are still there. If I can figure out how to do it, I’ll post some pictures of them here.
For now, American TV watchers will have to be content to see the cute actress and the pretty Holstein.
My barn and house are appearing on national American television in a new Robert’s Dairy commercial. The commercial opens with a woman smiling passionately and talking. They make us think she is accepting a marriage proposal when she says, “I choose you!” and then they pull back and we see that she is talking to a Holstein. At the very end of the commercial, you are treated to a pastoral scene of cows grazing in a pasture with a big red barn, a white farmhouse, and an assortment of outbuildings in the background.
That’s where I live. My sewing room is in the red building to the right of the house. My two horses are hidden in the barn. They weren’t allowed to be out during the filming.
Only cows. Actually only one cow. She is a 4-H cow borrowed from a neighbor and hauled in for the event.
Filming took place on a sunny day last fall. The crew that came to do the filming started pulling in about 7:30 AM – several trucks full of equipment that looked like it came from the USS Enterprise (Beam me up, Scotty!) and a catering vehicle. As I left for work, I drove past a shaded table laden with fruits, cheese, deli meats and bottles and bottles of purified water and sodas. All the exciting stuff must have happened while I was at work. They started to wrap up and leave around 5:30 PM with the last one pulling out around 7:30 that evening. I’ve often wondered where they went to the bathroom during that day. Then again, maybe I don’t want to know. There’s no evidence of it visible in the commercial. Even the cow stays tidy on camera.
The place is now blanketed in snow and the cow has long since gone home, but my gorgeous horses are still there. If I can figure out how to do it, I’ll post some pictures of them here.
For now, American TV watchers will have to be content to see the cute actress and the pretty Holstein.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
One Square Mile
This is getting depressing.
I am a 51 year old woman.
One day, at the grocery store, they gave me the senior citizen’s discount.
Okay, so I look old. I knew it was coming.
I have a mirror and I’m not blind to the grey hairs and wrinkles.
A few days later, the lady at the deli called me “sir.”
So now I think must look like an old man.
Then, just last week, a sample lady rushed over to me and handed me a Slim-Fast bar.
So I look like a fat old man.
So I went on a diet. (I’ll keep you posted).
I go out of my way to put delicate rings on my fingers and precious looking dangly earrings on my lobes.
And I’m growing out my hair and looking at mags to find a soft, curly style that my thin, graying hair can support.
My best friend, who is a cosmetologist, is going to show me how to do makeup.
I hate makeup – it makes my eyes itch and my face feel greasy and it leaves weird looking stains on the neckline of my shirts.
What’s the alternative?
Continue to go around looking like a fat old man.
This is getting depressing.
I am a 51 year old woman.
One day, at the grocery store, they gave me the senior citizen’s discount.
Okay, so I look old. I knew it was coming.
I have a mirror and I’m not blind to the grey hairs and wrinkles.
A few days later, the lady at the deli called me “sir.”
So now I think must look like an old man.
Then, just last week, a sample lady rushed over to me and handed me a Slim-Fast bar.
So I look like a fat old man.
So I went on a diet. (I’ll keep you posted).
I go out of my way to put delicate rings on my fingers and precious looking dangly earrings on my lobes.
And I’m growing out my hair and looking at mags to find a soft, curly style that my thin, graying hair can support.
My best friend, who is a cosmetologist, is going to show me how to do makeup.
I hate makeup – it makes my eyes itch and my face feel greasy and it leaves weird looking stains on the neckline of my shirts.
What’s the alternative?
Continue to go around looking like a fat old man.
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