Jason’s Story

Because every big guy needs to know that he is the hero of untold stories

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Jason. He lived in a big white house, actually a mansion, built by the Popcorn King of Cass County. It sat on top of a rise, overlooking farm buildings and farmland that accounted for many of Jason’s childhood adventures. His little feet wandered around the farm, through the creeks, and to the farthest reaches of the woods. He loved to play, but even his games were planting the fields and feeding the cattle of his sandbox farm. By the time he was four years old he had mapped out his life plan–go to kindergarten, master the trombone, play football, attend Iowa State, and farm.

This is why no one, least of all his parents, questioned his gradual, unobtrusive move from little boy to little farmhand. By the time he was six years old, Jason could drive tractors pulling two grain wagons, scrape the bottom of the silage pit with the 656 and Westendorf loader, herd and sort cattle, and vaccinate piglets. There was more confidence in his ability as he managed to execute jobs that some of the hired men only blundered through.  For him, farmwork seemed less like a feat and more like business as usual.

As seasons passed Jason became increasingly involved in the farm operation. He counted on himself to know what was going on, what needed to be going on, and how he could align the two. Necessary times away from this work included trips to the IH implement store and not much else. Kindergarten was no fun for a kid who wanted to ride in the silage chopper or watch the beaters of the combine sweep in the soybean plants. Little League games interrupted his chores the same way they interrupted his dad’s schedule. A life of tractors and livestock was the only game plan that mattered.

This is not to say that Jason had no other interests. He was always a curious and exuberant learner. Whether it was assisting the local plumber working in the basement (which brought about the comment, “How old is this kid–four going on twenty?”) or somehow concocting some kind of lie-filled tale with his granddad, Jason questioned everything. He rewarded his elementary classmates with hugs for right answers and even for serious though incorrect attempts. He talked (a lot and loudly), he thought, he read (only nonfiction), he wrote, he drew, all as a little guy.

What remained constant, however, was his dedication to our farming operation, no matter what it involved. So, when we built the dairy barn and filled it with Holsteins when he was in second grade, Jason’s daily timeline changed drastically. He was up every day at 3:00 a.m. and headed to the barn. Whether he was actually milking, feeding the bottle calves, or distributing silage to the troughs in the pens, he was dedicated, maybe to the newness of it all, but also to the camaraderie of the task.

But he was seven, and the long days took a toll on his energy, even though we didn’t notice it. Only when a neighbor told us that the bus driver had to wake Jason up on the bus rides home did we become aware. Our knowing didn’t change his routine much because, as usual, the farmhand Jason was essential. Right or wrong, the hours he spent everywhere on the farm made it manageable, and we, the adults in the room, were too busy to make it right, or to even know what might have been right.

In any case, this little boy created the purpose for what we were doing. He worked hard, he worked long, and he worked with passion. He laid a foundation in his spirit that made him mindful of the land, respectful of animals, and stalwart about family and all that it means. Thank you, Jason, for helping us appreciate life through the eyes of a little man-boy.

 

Jed’s Story

Because every little guy deserves to be the hero of his own story

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Jed. He lived in a big white house with a red roof. There were tall evergreens in the front yard, a white wooden fence on the side, and white rock on the double driveway. All the out-buildings on Jed’s family’s farm were red and white. It was a dairy farm, and black and white Holsteins grazed in the pastures and lolled around in pens and barns.

Jed spent a lot of time outside. He liked zigzagging through the grass to miss the gargygoyles (thistles), riding his bike up and down the paths that led to almost everywhere, and once in a while, aggravating the calves in the little shed. He liked to challenge himself to climb higher in the trees, run faster, and try out new adventures.

One morning he was walking out by the long red dairy barn. Even from the far north end, he could see that there was some kind of commotion in the pen on the south end. He started running so that he could figure it out.

When he got closer, he could see that the cows were running in circles in the big lot. Dust was flying, hooves were stomping, and the noise was thunderous. The cause finally became clear. Somehow, six stray dogs had slipped under the fence and were chasing the cows around and around. Even a kid knows that running is bad for dairy cows. This had to stop!

Jed ran back toward the house as fast as he could. When he finally found his dad, he could barely tell him what was going on because he was so out of breath. Daddy didn’t really know what he could do, but Jed had an idea. Quick as a wink, he found a feed pan and filled it with dog food. Daddy helped him open the big pole gate a little ways, and Jed set the dogfood in the space.

In a couple of minutes all six of the dogs had discovered the feast and were crowded around the pan. Daddy got a rope and tied them up. The cows moved to the other side of the pen and rested. The whole thing would have been a disaster if Jed hadn’t been out there.

Daddy squeezed Jed’s shoulder as they walked back to the house. He said, “Thank you, Jed, for saving our cows.”

 

Jafe’s Story

Because every little guy deserves to be the hero of his own story

Once upon a time there was a little boy. His name was Jafe. He lived in a big yellow farmhouse on the top of a big hill. From his yard he could see rolling hills and farms for miles around.

A gravel driveway circled Jafe’s house and a rock-covered incline cut through the grass to the garage. On one side of the garaged a three-tiered flower garden attempted to survive in clay soil. This entire setup was perfect for Jafe to play with his farm toys. He spent hours pushing his tractors and wagons over the rocks, along the railroad ties, and through the dirt. He made long trips hauling loads of sand from the sandpile to create his farming grid.

One afternoon when Jafe was outside playing, he steered his little combine around the side of the garage to see a pickup and livestock trailer coming down the lane. He’d never seen the red truck before, and he didn’t know why anyone would be coming to his house. He just stayed low and watched.

The two men with the pickup proceeded to back the trailer up to the barn door. The very barn door that led to the pig pen!

Jafe ran into the house to tell his mom to call the sheriff. Obviously, these guys were up to no good. Then he went back to watch as they loaded the pigs into the trailer. Luckily, the pigs were squealing and stubborn that day so it took the men a while to get the last ones into the trailer.

After they slid the steel door shut, the men jumped into the pickup and headed out. Unfortunately for them, they confused the lane to the pond with the lane to the road. And, they had to go all the way to the pond to turn around once they started down that narrow path. Jafe got into the old station wagon with his mom and had her park it across the gate so there was no escape for the thieves.

In a couple of minutes the sheriff arrived with his siren screeching. The men were arrested.

Daddy came home, backed the trailer up to the barn, and unloaded the pigs. They were glad to be back in their pen.

Daddy walked up to Jafe, put his big hand on Jafe’s spiky hair, and said, “Thank you, Jafe, for saving our pigs.”

Jared’s Story

Because every little guy deserves to be the hero of his own story

Once upon a time there was a little boy. His name was Jared. He lived in a big brown house with a limestone rock front. Sometimes, usually in August, the cracks between the rocks were so crowded with grand-daddy longlegs that the house appeared to have grown hair. The other good thing about the house was that it sat at the edge of a big woods.

Jared loved to walk in the woods. All kinds of animals and birds lived there. He would follow the path behind the house, beside the cherry trees and grape vines, and end up surrounded by tall trees, scraggly shrubs (lots of them thorny wild roses), and rotting trunks and branches. He could walk for a long time out there just stuff checking out.

One spring afternoon Jared made one of his usual treks into the woods. He saw robins and cardinals, squirrels and rabbits, and the footprints of deer and raccoons. He even smushed his tennis shoe into a new mole track.

He was just walking along when he saw the big buffalo bull. Jared knew that he should not bother him so he took a wide circle around him and continued on. He hadn’t gone far when he came upon a buffalo cow with a brand new baby calf lying in the grass beside her. He knew the calf wasn’t very old because it could not stand up yet and because the mom was licking its wet back. Jared didn’t go very close, but he stood in the trees just looking at them for a long time.

All of a sudden he heard a low growling sound just a few feet away. The wolf was slinking into the clearing. It had its teeth bared and a hungry look in its eyes. It knew that the calf was helpless.

What could Jared do? He knew that he couldn’t defend the calf alone and that he didn’t have time to run all the way back to the house for help.

Then he remembered the buffalo bull. Jared took off toward the place where the bull had been. When he saw him, he made noises on the opposite side so that the bull went lumbering toward the cow.

Once the buffalo got to the grassy patch, he saw what was going on with the wolf, and the cow, and the calf. The bull knew what to do. He lowered his giant, furry head, stomped his front hoof into the dirt, and charged at the wolf. He caught it with his horns and tossed it back among the trees. The wolf ran howling to safety deep in the woods.

The buffalo bull plodded on through the grass.

But the cow knew what had happened. She knew that Jared had saved her calf. She stood back long enough for Jared to pet the soft new fur, as if to say, “Thank you, Jared, for saving my baby.”

 

On Your Feet

Sometimes we take the little everyday things of life for granted. Because they are always there, they seem unimportant. The opposite should be true. Our daily use should establish them at the top of our possessions list. One of these unappreciated necessities is socks. We all have a drawer full of them, and we seldom think about them unless we want a missing pair or a specific color. Only then do we understand the power of socks.

Our socks definitely play into our attitude for the day. Putting on a new pair in the morning signals a good day. Just knowing that your big toe isn’t going to poke through a hole or that the top isn’t going to creep down an ankle and form a lump under your instep puts an added bounce in your step. They are to be relished, especially when compared with times when socks had to make it to the end of the year, or Christmas, or whenever there were enough dollars left over to buy a pack at J.C. Penneys. Women, not just my mother and grandmothers, darned socks. For us, that meant that they inserted a darning egg into the sock and positioned it in the heel or the toe. Then, they wove course cotton thread back and forth until the hole was filled. The patches were horrible, an entirely different feeling from the soft wool or blended yarn of the rest of our foot covering. It didn’t stretch or shrink like the rest of the material so it made a little tumor-like bag. I preferred to fold the toe fabric back and deal with the lump that created on top, or to just get used to my heel sweating against the inside of my shoe. Of course, that didn’t deter Mom from her appointed duty until, one day, sock darning became a thing of the past.

In attempts to create the perfect sock, styles change constantly. As a little girl, my favorite anklets, as they were called, were white angora. They were super soft and made my feet appear to be enshrouded in a cloud. I only had a few of pairs of them, probably because they were too expensive, even for a birthday present. To go with Easter and Christmas dresses, little girls sported socks with lacy cuffs to fold down to their patent leather Mary Janes. Mostly though, my childhood socks were purchased in packages of two white pairs, accompanied by a pair each of yellow, pink, lilac, and light blue. Their tops were meshed with elastic so that they clung to my ankles whether they were folded down or pulled up. Boys, on the other hand, wore socks that were replicas of those found in the men’s department, always dark in color, sometimes with stripes or argyle designs, basically boring.

In junior high we were introduced to nylons. They were coveted–expensive (sometimes over a dollar a pair), grown-up, and sooo perishable. We wore them to church and school dances where we sat and walked carefully lest we create a runner and render our nylons useless. In high school we wore them more often, on days planned ahead with our friends, but never on P.E. days (for obvious reasons). Often we wore nylons with canvas tennis shoes that we had soaked in white shoe polish. Our flesh/ecru/taupe/tan ankles met up with pasty whiteness, and we fancied ourselves just returned from hours at the beach. A tiny part of us had to know that we were ridiculous, but mostly we believed that we were extremely stylish.

The next great sock innovation was knee-highs made of heavier opaque nylon used in tights. They were dressier than white anklets, smoother than woolen blend knee-highs with woven patterns, and far more durable than nylons. They came in red, green, black, brown, navy, really any color, and declared a private-school-girl style with our revolutionary mini skirts. Maybe the best thing about them was their practicality; only a few inches of knee and lower thigh was exposed to the negative wind chills as we hoofed our way around campus.

About this same time, panty hose came on the fashion scene. This coincided with the women’s lib movement, bra-burning, and Gloria Steinem. Panty hose were classy and comfortable, a concept heretofore unimportant. No one ever really talked about girdle- burning, though more of them went in the trash in the 1960’s than did bras. However, panty hose hit the pocketbook. In attempts to make them last longer, we employed clear nail polish to stifle runs and sprayed hair spray over our shimmering legs to make the sheer nylon tougher. Since a run in one leg could cancel out the entire pair, we quickly learned to cut the tattered leg off and unite it with a different pair that was missing the other leg, creating twice the wear with only a little extra bulk. But however much it cost, panty hose ended the days of garters and girdles. (Today’s body shapers in no way compare to a garment that took all your arm strength to wedge over your thighs and rear, and sported plastic and wire stays that changed how you sat and walked.)

Now we have graduated to a much more practical state. Sheer hosiery is rarely worn; bare legs are totally acceptable. Socks today are more decorative in color and seasonal print but donned for warmth and comfort. Style is important in an athletic sense, but even having mismatched socks is fine. Apparently, no one besides me cares. Socks really are on the bottom rung of the style ladder.

Still, socks have a place in our family folklore. My grandmother ironed socks for my grandfather. My grandfather actually wore men’s garters around his calves. One of the main speeches for our graduation practice was to demand that no Manning High School graduating senior male would show up at the official ceremony wearing white, Elvis-esque socks. With a family of six kids just having all socks come out of the dryer with a mate was a rare occasion, almost cause for celebration. And summer, of course, meant no more socks to wash and match for a few months as tennis shoes and flip flops demanded nothing.

When son Jafe was two or three years old, my sister Cindy sent him a package of tube socks. (Remember those shapeless cylinders that could be worn out evenly because there was no designated heel.) He relished his six pairs of soft new socks in various colors with two little stripes near the top. Now, he was not just an athlete like his older siblings, he was a proud owner of something unique and special. For a few weeks he played with his new socks, wore them on his hands, and used them for puppets. He took them with him to the babysitter and shared them with other kids if they were nice. In his high school psychology class he used them as his example of a meaningful childhood experience, which became a legend repeated yearly by the teacher. Those socks, still to be found in Jafe’s treasure chest, were more than apparel.

Then socks became a means of identification on the football fields where my Weems boys played. While other parents had to see jersey numbers, I could pick out my kid by seeing the stripes on his socks. It took some carefully planned shopping but was worth it in the end. Even when team socks became the mode, my sons squished the high tops down around their ankles and played bare-legged. I may never have learned the nuances of the game, but I knew every move my sons made.

As my offspring moved on to college and to life outside of my realm, I kept in touch with packages bearing letters and seasonal socks. I mailed socks around the country and imagined them actually being worn. I only gave up on this when I visited Heather one time and found so many pairs of black socks with orange jack-o-lanterns and red socks with sparkling snowflakes and bells that her little sons were wearing them year around. I, however, still feel festive when my feet are decked out for the season.

Nowadays my sock distribution is at Christmas. Nothing says “I love you” like a package of socks–wool, athletic, or dress–fit for the climate and activities of the recipient. They may not be much of a gift at the opening moment, but as I said before, new socks have the power to change your day. If I can supply the catalyst that improved someone’s grip on life, even for a moment, I want to be there, soft, warm, and snuggly, almost as good as a hug.

 

Living in My Skin

Growing up as the fourth child and third daughter, I suppose that I was constantly on the lookout for what might make me stand out, be even slightly unique. By the time I came along, Mom and Dad had already parented two little girls and were busy getting my toddler brother on the road. I spent a decent amount of my babyhood in my crib upstairs, so I am told. I’m sure this didn’t matter much to me at first, but we humans are social creatures, and eventually I looked for anything to make me special. Two physical features became my blessing and my bane.

I was the only blue-eyed Miller child. Among my brown-eyed siblings, it was something that people noticed and commented on. Adults would ask, “Where did you come from?”; a remark I relished for the attention not the insinuation which I didn’t understand. That could have been enough for me, my own claim to fame in the Miller clan. Unfortunately, the recessive b match wasn’t all that I got. I also received some weird, undiagnosed skin affliction. It was nothing life-threatening, just miserable and disgusting. My skin was a tough, wrinkly-scaly affair from the beginning.

This skin business baffled our family doctor and set him into action to figure out a cure, which he never found. Eventually, though, he decided that I did not have the proper number of pores, thus preventing natural oils and lubricants from making my epidermis soft and smooth. It was, instead, dry and rough, and sometimes cracked deeply enough to bleed. It had a red hue that made it look sore, even though it wasn’t that painful. The shame of having skin that made me look aged and reptilian was the real cross to bear. Luckily, for no explicable reason, my weird skin covered all of me except my face. I came to appreciate this more every year.

The doctor’s treatment for my skin was seasonal and based on observation. Since it improved in warm weather, he determined that sunlight made my skin better. My family made sure that I got plenty. Before I could walk I was parked in baskets or on blankets in front of windows or on the lawn so I could soak up the rays. As a toddler I spent the summer outside in just a diaper or panties. My skin did heal, though not permanently. But along the way, I tanned and burned and learned to love the feel of the sun on me. To this day, warm rays release serotonin in my blood. On the downside, which no one really thought much about until ozone depletion and melanoma, I garnered sunburn scars, freckles, and age spots. And of course, the sun was no cure; the malady reappeared again in the fall as the cold racked up its toll.

Many years later a dermatologist told me that Dr. Chain had put my childhood skin in the balance with later life scourges as he had decided that I probably wouldn’t live long enough to face skin cancer. The specialist may have known about skin conditions, but he did not understand the devotion of our family doctor to his patients nor the lack of solid research available to rural Iowans. I am convinced that I was given that advice based on dedication to my health and welfare. Dr. Chain had a small office in his home, with a waiting room, one examination room, and an equipment alcove. Reusable syringes and tubes sat next to a sterilizing unit, and the place smelled of rubbing alcohol. People showed up without appointments with no regard to office hours. No one was ever turned away regardless of disease or injury. There was no interest in ability to pay, only in the ability to heal. Dr. Chain treated me the best he knew how, expecting me to live a long and robust life.

Anyway, one of the worst elements of my skin was the other part of my treatment–constant rubdowns with lineaments and lotions. Eventually my mother decided that pure lanolin worked best. This heavy-duty animal grease became a second outer layer for me. My clothes stuck to it, and I smelled like a sheep. At bath time, which was infrequent by today’s standards, it took a real sudsing to get to my actual skin cells. In my opinion, this part of my treatment was more disgusting than just hiding my skin under long sleeves and long socks. However, Mom was devoted, and I created body-sized grease spots on the sheets every night.

Throughout grade school, people noticed my skin. My hands had creases and wrinkles where other little hands were smooth and plumpish. The skin around my ankles and wrists cracked and bled almost daily as a result of too much time in cold, damp mittens and boots. My classmates made no effort to cover their curiosity and disdain; teachers showed gentler concern. In fact, my fourth grade teacher brought lotion and applied it on my arms and legs after recess. Everything was a temporary heal but appreciated.

When junior high arrived, I became more self-conscious. I wore long sleeves and knee-high socks into the summer, showing that physical comfort is secondary to social criticism. Only growing old enough to wear nylons added some variety to my cover-up wardrobe. I sacrificed swimming at the local pool and suffered through a couple of terrible years when we were actually required to wear sleeveless, legless gym uniforms. When other girls were looking for prom dresses with spaghetti straps, I was seeking the less common long-sleeved style. Fortunately, I was in the floor-length gown era so no problem there.

In any case, my skin is still not “normal” compared to other people. I still wear long sleeves and long pants most of the year, until the summer sun has had time to work its magic. However, an upside has surfaced. When I look at my old lady hands, they don’t look so weird to me; after all, they are practically the same as my kindergarten hands were many years ago. Even though my skin hardly matters on the Richter Scale of maladies and hardships, it has made me more empathetic. It has also made me stronger. Someone saying, “Ooh, what’s wrong with your skin,” may ruin a moment but certainly not a life. My dad used to say, “Most people need to be skinned” in an attempt to verify that it’s what’s inside that counts (and also to curtail expenditures on make-up and the like). It has made me aware of how insignificant appearance should be. Passing judgment should be deeper than an analysis based on skin condition or color.

 

 

 

 

The Good China Syndrome

One of the most awesome inventions of my childhood days probably invaded every middle and lower class household in America. No, I’m not speaking of television, although that ranks right up there too. What I am referring to was far less aesthetic and very useful. It is, of course, Melmac dinnerware. The younger set probably will not understand the impact this had nor the symbolic statement of Alf, a 1980’s tv sitcom about an alien life form, being a native of the planet Melmac.

Nevertheless, sometime during the 1950’s, no exact dates available, my mother purchased our first set of Melmac. I am not talking frills and flowers, just basic eatware, including two place settings each of blue (really aqua), red, yellow, and green, or was it black? This replaced our previous everyday dishes that were a hodgepodge of chipped glassware donated by Gramma, Aunt Maude, Aunt Martha, and being the last leave several church potlucks. We finally had a matched set of dishes and felt very upperclass.

Now the truly remarkable thing about our new Melmac was that it didn’t break. Heretofore, we had to deal with plates that shattered when dropped and cups that had not handles. Chipped rims were a way of life, but Melmac was different. In fact, the first thing a new Melmac owner did was throw a couple of cups across the room and bat a plate or two against the table just to prove to the relatives that the good life had indeed arrived. Our green formica-topped table would now be laid with matching cups, saucers, and plates for evermore, amen.

Only a few issues remained with the original Melmac. While no one could question its endurance, its finish was not quite grainy but certainly not polished, which meant that it stained pretty easily. Coffee cups were the worst. Caffeine addicts, even Sanka drinkers, had a choice of using cups sporting a disgusting blackish-brown on the inside, or licking grit off their teeth that was deposited by scrubbing with Ajax tub cleaner. Neither was too appetizing.

However, the most important thing the Melmac did was make it possible for the good china to remain stashed in the buffet cabinet in the dining room along with the stemmed glassware and the good silver. I was probably six before I realized we had Depression glass goblets and gold-rimmed dinner plates. These were carefully brought out only when someone we hardly knew came to visit. And then, use was restricted to the adults. They ate in the dining room on a tablecloth, set with the good china, matching silverware, water glasses, and flowers. The kids ate in the kitchen, on the formica (for cleanup expediency) set with Melmac, no knives, and ketchup and mustard jars for centerpieces. Our solace was that we had more fun.

Some years later I was putting my own good china away, the morning after a dinner party the night before. My four-year-old son watched in awe. He had no idea we owned such stuff, which amazed both of us since we were sure that he had sorted through everything in our house. I began thinking how ironic it is that we save our best for those we hardly know and let the people we love most use the Melmac.

You don’t have to contemplate this very long before twinges of guilt slither up your spine. We’re not just dealing with eating utensils here. This phenomenon permeates every aspect of our lives. For example, when was the last time you threatened your kids with permanent timeout if they disturbed your nap one more time, and two minutes later calmly, even politely, answered the doorbell, only to tell a struggling college student that you aren’t interested in a “twenty-two volume set of encyclopedias complete with color illustrations written at the third grade level”?

Have I touched a nerve yet? How about this? The boss asks you for the same information that you gave him yesterday. You patiently explain that the material is surely on his desk and even help him find it, all with the serenity and loyalty of Lassie. But that evening, your spouse mentions something about tissue in the bathroom. Of course you are too busy, and he should have thought of that before, and he’s lucky you buy the cushiony soft brand so he doesn’t get a concussion when you throw it at him.

I guess the message is clear. At our house we call it “the good china syndrome,” and those words serve as a reminder when we step on our housemates’ hearts. Acquaintances, classmates, co-workers, and even friends may not be near us in twenty years, but offspring, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers…family are here for a lifetime. Home may be the only place we have to unwind, and it offers the security of knowing we can let off steam and still be loved. Just put the Melmac away and use the good china as often as you can.

Our Oregon Trail

In August of 1955 our family headed West on a road trip that was hardly fathomable among many of the farmers in our neighborhood. Just leaving the fields, the livestock, and even the family dog was unthinkable. There were cows to milk, cattle to feed, hogs to slop, and weeds to pull. Everything on the farm, at least ours, was highly manual. Getting the work done on the ninety degree days was tough, even for those of us who were used to lugging, hauling, milking, weeding, and checking on everything. To ask someone else to step in to Dad and Mom’s work shoes was a colossal request. Nonetheless, Grampa and Gramma McNaughton volunteered, and probably insisted.

I was only five, and the details I remember are scarce and skewed. For example, I don’t remember working harder than usual, though Mom later talked of literally running through row after row of corn to hoe out the thistles before we could leave. I’m also sure there were last minute trips to deliver the cream and eggs to town. Frantic harvesting from the garden and canning everything that could go in a Mason jar filled the kitchen. Dad made sure that corn was shelled, and the feed bins were filled, and the right amount of protein pellets were in the alley of the granary. Days of work had to be compacted between the morning and evening chores, haymaking, and general upkeep.

Grampa probably had to help with the milking a couple of times to get to know the routine, as the cows were hand-milked at that time. It was important to know the habits of each cow–the order in which they came into the barn, who required hobbles, who needed to be talked to, and who just didn’t care much. Each cow also had her own stall and woe to him who might think they could stand in any other order. Milking was an exercise in patience; rushing only ended up taking more time.  (Keep in mind, there was probably a lot more to it than that. I was only five, and I didn’t offer an real help in the barn until I was at least seven when we got milking machines. Up til then, I crowded in by Mom or Dad to squeeze a few squirts of milk into the bucket and sometimes filled the feed pans so that each batch of cows got their incentive to stand still. Otherwise I played in the haymow, tried to keep the cats from getting trampled, and sneaked down to the creek with my brother since both Mom and Dad were too busy to notice.)

While loading the car, Dad changed the oil. I don’t really remember this, but all of my siblings will agree that we never went anywhere without Dad changing the oil as we sat in the sticky heat of the plastic seats. We had a relatively new car, a 1954 robin’s egg blue and white Ford, bigger and heavier than today’s vehicles, but beautiful. We had assigned seats and assigned sleeping areas. All four of us kids sat next to each other in the back seat, though I think that my brother Bob got to ride in the front between Mom and Dad fairly often. For sleeping, I had the back window, Cindy and Alice the back seat, and Bob the floor (complete with drive shaft hump). We couldn’t have imagined anything better.

Eventually we were on the road to Oregon. I knew practically nothing about where we were headed, not having seen a map or even knowing what a map was. I knew we were visiting relatives, seeing the mountains, and swimming in the ocean. I had no idea what I was in for, except that all of us were going and that meant my world would be secure and only a little bit crowded.

On the other hand, I believe that Dad was excited. We were headed to Elgin, Nebraska, for the first night. He always looked forward to seeing his brothers and spending some time in his old stomping grounds. That would also mean a big potluck dinner with all his family on hand and actual time to talk. We didn’t see them often, and usually only for a few hours between milkings and the three-hour drive both ways. I’m sure the adults talked late into the night while I sunk into the feather bed with Gramma Miller and dreaded the inevitable howling of the coyotes.

Beyond that first night of revelry, Dad was anticipating following the route that he himself had taken twice before in treks to Oregon. He had first traveled there in 1919 with his brothers, (except the twins who weren’t born yet), and his parents. He was also only five, but I think he noticed more. They were traveling in a conestoga truck in a time and places where gas stations were few and far between. It was a slow go. Going up big hills, and later mountains, meant that many of them had to walk. While their trip was a leap of faith, leaving the sandhills for a life in Oregon, ours was strictly a vacation. (Note: they didn’t end of staying which is a story of its own.)

The second of Dad’s trips happened in the early 1930’s when many young men left home to seek work anywhere they could find it. My twenty-year-old dad, with his friend Bob Edwards, followed the same map, joining up with Highway 20 and following the Oregon Trail west. Both of these trips ended up in Salem, Oregon, after many nights sleeping under the stars and depending the kindness of relatives and strangers along the way.

Comparatively, our 1955 trip was in the lap of luxury. Dad wanted to witness the change in the countryside; the rest of us were first-timers. He was getting to see the land through his experienced eyes as well as through the fresh eyes of Mom and his kids. He was the experienced tour guide of our little group and the model for us as parents when we later took our own families around the country.

I can’t really remember a timeline for this trip; I can remember big vistas and single moments. The first mountains I saw were the same ones that pioneers on the Oregon Trail saw a century earlier. Some consider them foothills of the Rockies, others name them the Laramie Mountains. Either way, they were amazing. Of course, I didn’t have to worry about getting over them. Neither broken axles nor overheated brakes were my concern as I was sucked into the majesty, a feeling that I have had to this day. In any of our trips west, I want to be the first to see the peaks in the misty distance and to watch them close in to become all of the visible world.

We saw cowboys, i.e., men mounted on horses wearing chaps, ten gallon hats, and kerchiefs around their necks. We had TV so this was nothing new to us, except these were real, and an entirely different picture from that portrayed in Gunsmoke or The Lone Ranger. These guys rode alone slowly, along the highway or in the ditch. They didn’t appear to be hell-bent to get anywhere before sundown. There were no gunfights and no stampedes. I loved the cowboys anyway because I could imagine myself adapting to these wide open spaces and riding off into the sunset.

Mom complained about the miles of craters of the moon and sage brush that we drove through for hours in Wyoming. When you’re a farmer, you look at land as something that should be tamed into rows or at least pasture and used to make a living. Mile after mile of those maroon/black/brown lava rocks didn’t offer much to that kind of thinking. I paid little attention to this, though noted that milk tasted too much like sage to put on my morning cereal.

Once in Oregon we stayed with Dad’s uncle and aunt in Salem. They didn’t seem to mind an invasion by a family of six, though I certainly wouldn’t have seen us as any kind of inconvenience. We drove to the Pacific Ocean one day to spend some time at the beach. I went out too far, not quite getting the idea of incoming waves, and was drenched and scared. Mom had to save me, and her dress was soaked to the waist. I am still leery of incoming surf when we go to the ocean, and still not smart because I can always count on getting my clothes wet in spite of myself.

A Hispanic family lived next door to Uncle Alvie. They had two kids about the same ages as my brother and me. We played with them and had adventures exploring, though probably never losing sight of the house. That was one of my few encounters with diversity during my childhood. Interestingly, I didn’t really notice any difference, and we had no problem with the language barrier. I guess “play” is universal.

This family trip was our one big one until we went to California to visit Cindy and Dave ten years later. Mom often said that our family doctor, Doc Chain, tried to convince her to leave Bob and me home. Conventional thought said we were too young to “get anything out of it.” The truth is I don’t think Mom or Dad could have driven out of the driveway without us. As for not getting anything from the trip, well, I fell in love with the mountains and the ocean. I saw life different from farming. I met cousins that I didn’t remember but understood that family is bigger than the people who live in your house. I learned to read No Vacancy signs for the couple of nights we stayed in motels, also a first for me.

Most of all, I felt cherished by my parents who were willing to lug me half way across the continent and by my siblings who gave up seat space for me to be part of the adventure.

 

 

 

 

The First Miller Trip to Oregon

Maybe your neighbor has one. Maybe you’ve seen them on the highway. Maybe you have one yourself. In any case, it isn’t difficult to see that camping, by way of pop-ups, fifth wheelers, RVs, and pickup toppers, is as popular as ever. Their owner-residents clean, polish, and pack for cross-country vacations and weekend treks around the state. Modern campgrounds are plentiful, and the travel is safe and leisurely.

This was not always the story for the vacationer with campers. We like to imagine what it was like on the original camping expeditions across the country, i.e., when the pioneers packed up their belongings, the family milk cow, and the dog, and set out for places unknown. Few stories, however, are told of the later trips made after roads existed, maps were printed, and relatives had settled along the way to visit. Nevertheless, these trips did take place.

One of them was taken in what may have been the earliest motorized Conestoga wagon. Fondly known by Berle Miller of Carroll as the covered truck, the vehicle carried his parents, Will and Lizzie Miller, and their five sons, ages 11, 7, 5, 3, and 1, from Elgin, Nebraska, to Salem, Oregon, in 1919. The route mainly followed the path of the Lincoln Highway through Nebraska and later joined up with parts of the Oregon Trail.

Today, jumping into the motor home and heading west might be easy, but then it was quite different. The trip to Oregon itself took forty-four days. That, of course, included adjusting routes to visit family members not seen in years and taking at least two wrong turns that involved extra days of travel.

But the trip was an adventure never to be forgotten. At 80, Miller remembers it vividly, even though he was only five when it happened. The Miller family left their Antelope County, Nebraska, farm on July 16, 1919, a rather late date to head toward the mountains, especially when the return trip might involve fall conditions. Nonetheless, they were excited to see their aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters, and so they went. The two youngest boys had whooping cough which added extra hardship but did not deter the cause.

They took a tent that they were planning to stay in at night. It was not a small creation, being 12 feet by 12 feet by 15 feet high. The first time that they put it up the wind blew it down, and so they abandoned it. The Conestoga became their only shelter. They stored their clothes, supplies, and tools in the bottom of the truck-bed wagon and covered it with a huge feather tick. The whole family slept on this bed, except seven-year-old Bill who slept on the seat of the truck.

For cooking, a homemade, portable grill substituted for both range and oven. Strap iron about a foot long was bolted to two other pieces of strap iron about two feet long. When they found a place to camp, usually near a stream, they dug a hole, built a fire in it, and put the grate over it. They could then cook on the grill, cover the opening of the pit to form a makeshift oven, or wrap vegetables to bake in the fire.

Eating was simple. They bought milk and other food from farmers along the way. One time they bought two potatoes that lasted the family for three days of meals. Miller’s favorite meal of the trip was when they dunked fresh bread and butter into sweetened green tea.

Keeping the truck running was not as much trouble as you may imagine. The gas tank held nine gallons, and they carried an extra five gallons in a can. There were gas stations along the way, often enough to not have to worry. The biggest problem involved the means of payment. The Millers were carrying gold pieces, and some gas station owners believed they were counterfeit and wanted paper money.

As the truck headed west from Elgin, farewell wishers may have seen several sticks dragging from the back of the wagon. According to Miller, “my brother Bill (7) took his collection of stick horses which he tied on the back of the truck. Not five miles from home, going over Cedar Creek, the truck rolled backward and broke the horses.” The bridge over the creek was arched so high above the water that a steep dirt ramp was made to connect the bridge and the road. The truck had almost made it up the ramp when the motor killed and it rolled back down to the road. The back of the truck dug into the dirt road because of the sharp angle of the incline and snapped the wooden toys. This was the first setback of the trip as they not only had to push the truck over but also had to take time to find some sticks for Will to make Bill new horses (which he did by tying the same jack rabbit heads on the the new sticks).

They also took the family dog Spot. Not nestled neatly in a portable pet carrier, but running alongside the truck, he soon became a nuisance. Whenever the summer heat troubled him, Spot wold find a nearby creek or pond and take a cool dip. The problem arose when he, still dripping, would jump into the back of the truck for a snooze. He was left at the home of a relative while still in Nebraska.

Seven days into the trip, at Scottsbluff, they stopped to visit Uncle Frank (Benjamin Franklin Miller) who lived on a ranch. Berle remembers that they traveled five miles to a well to get water to drink and for the sheep on the ranch. He also recalls that he and his brothers encountered a rattlesnake there which they ran away from because it “scared the daylights out of them.”

On the very western edge of Nebraska, they took a wrong turn and ended up in Colorado. Because of the road system, the mountains, and the maps, they had to retrace their steps back to Nebraska and take the other fork into Wyoming. They couldn’t risk trying to correct their mistake by just heading out in the right direction. The same thing happened later, and they wound up in Utah. These little side trips cost them several days.

Crossing the mountains proved to be challenging. The family had to get out and “lend a hand to the back of the truck” to keep it climbing. Eleven-year-old Charlie did most of the driving so that Will could push.

They crossed the Green River in western Wyoming on a ferry. It cost thirty cents. Berle remembers an old gentleman there who thought the price was outrageous, and after a long and loud argument, he drove his team of mules down the bank and through the water.

At one point, when they were preparing to camp, Lizzie wouldn’t allow it. It was the place of the Mountain Meadow Massacre, and she believed that it was haunted. No one would stay there because their horses went crazy during the night. Even though they had no horses, Lizzie felt it was too dangerous.

After staying with family in Oregon from August 7th to October 7th, the Millers set out on their return trip. As you would figure, it was bitterly cold and snowy in the mountains. “Melted snow got to dripping through the top of the truck so Dad shipped us out on a train,” stated Berle. Will and Charlie drove the truck and met up with the family in western Nebraska. The final leg of the journey, back to Elgin, was made in the covered truck.

This trip, one of the earliest in a motor home, set the stage for what has become a popular vacation mode in the U.S. It is a chronicle of early 20th century history in the not-so-wild West and a testament to family vacations.

(I wrote this in 1993 after interviewing Dad. It was published in the Carroll Herald.)

Never Say Never

We live in a world of hyperbole. We love Lu’s kahlua (or her caramel apple) cheesecake. We hate the new bus route. We can’t stand rap music (is it?). We can’t wait for our turn on the waterslide. We’d rather die than wear that purple t-shirt. Our life will be perfect once we get a new car. Thoughts like these ramble through our heads. The truth is that they have one thing in common:  We can actually live through any of these without our lives changing significantly (except maybe the cheesecake obsession). Knowing that we view the world like this, however, does not mean that we will change. We will continue to use superlatives and absolutes like they are all that matter.

I am probably one of the over-zealous people who exaggerates regularly. I tend to gush over accomplishments and regret failures far too long. A missed opportunity can haunt me for weeks. I have also made claims and vows, only to turn around and break them. On the other hand, I have stuck with habits, procedures, and beliefs that I could have let go and been better off.

Anyway, when I was in high school my older sisters started their families. I loved their kids more than any aunt I knew. I was a teenager and worried about the usual teenager things, except where my nephews and nieces were concerned. I chose to hang out with them whenever I could. I took them with me when I actually got to drive the car, knowing they somehow made me cooler. I was amazed that my friends didn’t find them as enthralling as I did. I didn’t care, though, as I was convinced my kids were the smartest, best, most interesting creatures alive. We made our own fun. We played in the yard, explored the grove, or hassled the cats. I’m sure that we told each other stories and lies as fast as we thought of them. I kept them from killing themselves and each other, not as far off from the truth as you might think. I freed my mom from watching them and was the most dedicated babysitter she could have found.

I did make some observations about kids and about parenting as I watched my nieces and nephews grow. I promised myself all of the things that I would do and all of the things that I would never do. When you’re young and don’t know much about the world, decisions are easy. Some of my thoughts were specific, some might apply across the board.

One thing I denounced was the idea of having kids sleeping with parents. It was the early 1960’s, and Dr. Spock was still the expert. Babies belonged in nurseries and needed schedules. The arrival of the baby should disrupt the household as little as possible. Babies also had to sleep on their stomaches, no matter how much they hated it. The Spock way was the only way.

Enter my sisters. Their babies were often in bed with them. Understand, I didn’t know anything about parenting or sleep deprivation. I only knew what I thought other more sophisticated families did, and other more sophisticated parents had lovely, stocked nurseries complete with the baby. I said I would never have my babies in bed with me, if I should ever have any.

Moving on to 1973 when Jason was born. Darrell’s requirement for the birth, beyond being present, was to have the nursery done. A small upstairs bedroom in Earl and Vava’s farmhouse where we lived was to be transformed. Known to all of us as the Lion’s Den, another name for storeroom I guess, it was the perfect size for a new baby. I repainted the iron baby bed that had been purchased for my mom’s birth in 1917 and bought an old dresser and rocker. Darrell painted the walls yellow and tacked a carpet remnant on the unfinished wood floor. Sheer white curtains made it light and baby-ready. It was perfect, for pictures and showing off and storing baby clothes.

Jason never slept in that room. He moved into our room and our bed the first night he came home. We spent the next seventeen years in a double bed with one, two, or more offspring. When we lived at Marne, I heard the phrase the family bed, which legitimized what we had been doing, and threw any allegiance I ever had to Dr. Spock out of the window. Luckily, our kids were cuddlers, not sprawlers, and only Jafe earned a nickname, “Digger,” for his nightly attempts to burrow under Darrell. I never quit cherishing the feeling of a child nestled in my arms all night. My sisters had known all along.

On countless other occasions I vowed I would “never” do this or that. Sometimes I held with my promise, like I never told my kids to “quit bawling or I’d give them something to bawl for,” I never spanked my kids with the spatula stored in the knife holder next to the meat cleaver, and I never forced anyone to wear Girl Scout shoes. Additionally, all my kids can swim (a promise made to myself early on), I still buy brandname cereal, I walk whenever I can, and I only drink Coke. Other mundane commitments, like keeping my car clean, sleeping in a bed, and scooping the sidewalk are myths from the past. Sometimes I forgot what I said so fast that I know it didn’t matter.

Now I try harder to keep my proclamations to myself. All or nothing claims make liars of us all.

(added March 3, 2017)