Piece of Furniture Finds its Forever Home

A piece of furniture that used to hold oil cans in my dad's garage now sets inside my house.

It's filled with books, items from my childhood, and other things I packed away in tubs when I needed to make room for a husband and step-daughter.

My crafty friend Valerie Shellhammer helped me refurbish this jewel.

at home in the house

When my brother-in-law Jeff saw it earlier this summer, he said, "It was a pie safe." He pointed to the screens on the top doors. "Flies wouldn't get in the pies that way," he added.

So that's what I'm calling it. The pie-safe bookcase.

Here's its story.

Dad said, "Are you sure you want that thing? It's really oily." 

I did. I had magazine pictures from years ago of what I wanted to turn it into. 

Dad didn't know that as a little girl, I had an entire plan of how to turn that yucky garage into a studio apartment. That bookcase was a key component of the design.

Yes, I have quite the imagination. Maybe when I'm 90 like he is, and if the garage is still standing, I'll renovate that garage into cottage I dreamed it could be.

Anyway, he let me have this cabinet, and that's when I learned there were doors for it. The top had that chicken wire, but the bottom doors were solid. Dad cleared out his stuff and packed it up for the trip from South Dakota to Kansas.

My brother-in-law Rick used my brother Elliott's pick-up to haul it down here. He brought a couple more items from the farm too.

The bookcase, a two-piece outfit, sat in my shed except for the times I took it out to scrape it.

I remember my friend and colleague Tim Hiebert bringing me, a relatively new home owner, a weed eater he'd picked up from a garage sale. That was somewhere in the mid to late '90s on Labor Day weekend.

Why do I remember that? Because he startled me when he walked into the backyard while I was scraping it. Tim said it looked like I had my work cut out for me.

And I remember the weekend because I thought I could get the thing completely scraped and done in a few days.

Work it was. Lots of elbow grease. 

What I found underneath was shocking. 

Red. Red paint.

Grandma Elizabeth, who no doubt had this in her house, must have painted it red. (Read "Namesake" by clicking here to know more about her.) Oil also seemed to seep from one corner. 

I decided I'd better measure the thing. It was too tall for my house­—if I was going to use both parts. I have low seven-foot ceilings, and this thing was nearly 10 feet tall.

My dream project went back in the shed to be infested with wasp hives and bird poop. Not much different than its life on the farm in the garage.

That was around 15 years ago.

After I got married in 2006, we moved the bookcase from the shed to our newly built garage, so the bookcase got cleaned up a bit for that. It stored lots of stuff on its open shelves with the doors setting on top collecting spiders. I still had dreams of it being inside the house some day though.

One summer my husband Chris bought me a hand sander, so I could use electric power to continue to clean up the thing. It worked. I went through a lot of sandpaper, but it worked.

A couple more years passed.

Brittany moved on to college and then out on her own. Her teenage room got redesigned back into a guest room. Here was my chance to get that thing in the house.

Valerie and I checked out vintage stores in Wichita for ideas. She snapped pictures. I bought paint. We had good intentions. But life happened.

And so it remained.

In the garage storing golf balls, flower vases, sander equipment, old yearbooks—not what I had envisioned for the thing years ago.

One day, Valerie said, "Let's get your bookcase done.

So on November 6, 2014, our first cold day of the fall season, we painted it with white chalk paint in the garage.

My husband had to cut off about two-and-half inches from the bottom, so it would fit in the house when finished.

Val finished up the doors at home.

Months pass.

Then finally in May, the entire thing was done. We put some sort of glaze on it. Smooth surface now.

Val found new hinges, but we saved the original clasps.

Oh, if those clasps could tell me the hands that have touched it throughout the years.

Finally, my dream piece had its new home inside the house.

I had fun arranging the items in it on my first full day of summer vacation. It took me all afternoon, but I wanted to make it look inviting to the point that if you came to my house, you'd love snooping around in the thing.

You'd figure out a lot about me through the book titles, the cups filled with bookmarks, the newspaper clippings and pictures arranged in boxes by year or topic. If my memory ever starts to fade, this will be my go-to place.

Sentimental me sure enjoys going in there, pulling out a box, reading through old notes.

After 26 years of teaching, I have a lot of notes from students—and I believe I have kept every one.

My Cousin Cynthia gave me Aunt Mary Ruth's notes from the state quilt she made me when she finished the embroidery squares that Mom had started. Precious to see her handwriting and planning.

Letters from my sister-in-law Doris when I first attended college. I've always loved her fancy cursive writing. And letters from Mom too. Kept in the envelopes with the dates stamped on them.

Notes from college pals. Homemade cards from my eight nieces and nephews who are now all adults. The vocabulary list of a made-up language my niece Jessica and I tried to invent one summer.

Notes from Steve Elliott and his mom about how thankful they were for the connections we made while I student taught at Halstead the fall of 1988. I would not have stayed with teaching if it wasn't for Steve, but that's a story for another post.

Material things. Yes. But things from events, students, and people that matter. This bookcase keeps them safe. Just like it did Grandma's pies.


Have you ever taken on a project that spanned two decades to complete? Have any items from an earlier time that you wished could be at your fingertips? Any family heirlooms in your home?

Pinky Rings & Puzzles

When my oldest sister offered me her pinky ring, which I adored, I knew something was up. It was her way of telling me she got engaged.

I was in sixth grade when Priscilla wiggled her finger at me and then switched her arms around to show me her engagement ring from Rick, a man she had known since her childhood days at Byron Bible Camp in South Dakota.

In the late 70s, when they’d started dating, I asked her why she liked him. Her response was always the same. "Because he's a hunk."

My elementary mind needed a definition, and she readily supplied one. Later, I learned there was more substance to her feelings than that, but for a little kid, the answer sufficed.

Their engagement was happy-sad for me. I loved having my Sissy around, and when she started dating Rick, who lived about two hours away, my fun doubled when he would visit. But I knew after they’d get married, she’d be far away.

Pris & Rick: the early years

Rick was an only child, and I was a late comer growing up as though I was one, so we got along pretty well. When he’d visit, it would be for the entire weekend since he was a farmer. He and Sissy enjoyed putting puzzles together. I got in on that too. Come to think of it, I'm sure I crashed in on their date time a lot when they were in the house.

Puzzle work meant sorting the pieces into pans. Edges in one, colors in another, make the border first. The puzzle would remain set up in the living room if it wasn’t completed during that visit.

Puzzle Time. Pris snapped this picture of me on Rick's lap.

I don't remember the first time I met Rick, but I do remember the first time my 10-year-old eyes saw him kiss my sister. I was sneaking around the dining room doorway, and there they were between the kitchen and the living room smooching.

Doorways seemed to be a place Rick liked, for I remember Mom complaining that he'd leave his shoes in the middle of them. Pris said he still does that.

Pris & Rick in 2012 on their 34th wedding anniversary

After 37 years of marriage this past March 25 of 2015, I’d have to say he's taken pretty good care of my Sissy and continues to put up with me, his pesky little sister-in-law. They raised three children, two boys and a girl. The smooches I see now are with their eight grandchildren. Grandparenthood suits them.

Anybody else remember times when an older sibling started dating? Care to share your antics?

Writer’s Note: For more firsts involving my big sister’s life with Rick, click here and read Curlers, a Bra, and an Airplane Ride. 

Things My Dog Ate & Survived

My first house dog would have reached the age of 20 this past St. Patrick's Day. For a dachshund, that would be astounding.

The elongated creatures are a loyal and lovable breed, for who doesn't love the occasional, "Hey, it's a wiener dog!" But these fur kids are prone to back problems and overeating. And eating is something my dog loved to do.

Lexy with my siblings.
Top left with Priscilla, Brenda on the right, and with Elliott, lower left.

All of Lexy's bad habits were my fault. Diving for food, digging in purses, ripping papers, chewing woodwork. Not a pretty thing for a canine who came from a line of pure bred show dogs.

But I will take credit for her friendly, unabashed nature too. She never feared anyone or anything. She had no reason to. I raised her from the time she was a puppy after getting her from Jacquie Girrens in June of 1995.

To honor her memory this year, here's a lighthearted look at some of the things Lexy ate during the 11-plus years of her life.

Corn on the Cob
Lexy grabbed one out of my brother-in-law Rick's hand when he was teasing her with it at my sister Brenda's house. Lexy gagged on it, and I had to reach down her throat and pull it out. I gave Rick a piece of my mind as he did me about keeping her around the table. But Rick's a dog lover, so I don't hold it against him.

Lexy rests as Rick and I play chess.

Butter
She'd jump up on chairs if we didn't push them in. If Priscilla, my other sister who was Rick's wife, had butter on the table, Lexy would eat the entire stick if we didn't stop her in time. Result: loose bowels.

Pizza
Again, we didn't push in the chairs, so at my step-daughter Brittany's 13th birthday party, Lexy joined in and gobbled some pizza. See, I told you. These were all my fault.

Chocolate
Don't worry. We got her to vomit and she was okay. When I found an almost empty bag of chocolate in the hallway at my sister Priscilla's, I knew what had happened. Lexy had been snooping around in a bedroom where Pris was storing wedding supplies for her son's reception. We called a vet, and they told us what to do so she would foam and then expel it. So we waited. And waited. And waited. And just about the time we were going to load her up and take her in, up it all came. PTL!

Mom keeping Lexy out of the junk pail.

Pantyhose
Yes, I used to wear them under my pants. Had to keep warm somehow on cold bus rides during basketball season. Lexy managed to find the nylons and eat the legs. All I found was the waist and butt part. My vet, Doc Mike Herndon, told me how much and how often to give her the goopy black toothpaste-looking stuff that acted as a stool softener. I kept it on hand because of all the stuff she'd get into. Then Doc said, "You need to dig through her poop and puke to piece the pantyhose back together again, so we know all the pieces are out of her." I did that with a big stick. This happened twice. You'd think I'd put them away so she couldn't get to them. Again, all my fault. This is why I do not baby sit.

Lexy & Pepper eye-ball Chris' cereal.

Chewing Gum
My friend and colleague Joyce Foley came for a Longaberger party at my house. I usually took Lexy to my neighbors, Jack and Betty Tracy, when I'd have such events, but Joyce had come later, and I already had the wiener girl back at the house. We went into the kitchen, and when we came back out, Lexy was busy chewing up a wad of Big Red gum from Joyce's purse. She did a similar thing when I stopped for a minute to deliver something to my niece Evelynn. When I came back, Lexy had managed to get into my candy and gum and some Advil. The bugger knew how to unzip bags!

Poop
Yes, her own. It's not as uncommon as you might think. I had to give her special pills so she would quit doing it. It was embarrassing when she'd do it in the front side yard. The behavior is called coprophagy. She liked horse droppings, silage, and trash cans too.

My life with Lexy was full of crazy events like this, and I loved every minute of it. For a more serious read on my time with her, read the post called The Loss of a Pet.


What are your house pet's habits? Have they eaten anything weird?

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I know one person born on Valentine’s Day. That’s Verda, my brother-in law’s mom. She would have been 93-years-old today.

A child of the 1930s, Verda was not wasteful. Rick, my brother-in-law, told me his mom would put three pans of water outside during the mornings of the summer months. 

“By noon the water was warm enough to wash up outside before coming in the house,” he said. They used homemade soap too.

I have a few of Verda’s things that Rick was gracious enough to give me. After his mother passed away in 1996, I wanted what I referred to as the Longhorn cattle mirror. It’s a square mirror set on a slant behind beveled glass with three curvy hat hooks on it.

the Longhorn cattle mirror

I had to beg a few times, but Rick finally let me have Verda's mirror. It's right inside the door to my house. It's where I hang my keys, the dog leashes, and my hats. It's where I take one last peak of myself before I start leave. I use it every day. I think Verda would like that.

Another piece I have is her magazine rack end table with a narrow drawer and a slot for blankets underneath. It's the end table on my side of our couch. Just like the mirror, I use it every day. Lexy, my first wiener dog, loved that table. She'd stand on it and look out the window—that's why the top is all scratched up. Verda wouldn't like that.

the end table Lexy loved

I have an old coffee grinder too that hangs on the wall, and when my green thumb is in the mood to attend to houseplants, I keep a small potted philodendron in it. Rick gave me a couple of her crocks and two of those tan bowls with red apples and green leaves on it. I've seen those at the antique stores. They're worth something. Mine holds a potted plant.

clockwise: Verda's bowl, coffee ginder, glass jar, and flower pot

Another one of Verda’s flower pots used to be part of my welcome piece at my front door. It was a beautiful green and mauve colored flower pot. Last year I poured leftover water in it, then it froze busting the pot into many pieces. It broke my heart too. I really liked that pot.

There’s one more thing of Verda’s in my house: a tiny glass jar with an unusual shape. It gets wider at the bottom. Maybe it was a mustard jar. It holds a few utensils near my reading, writing, and devotional spot in my bedroom. Like the mirror, I use it every day.

Verda & husband Andrew

As a little girl, I knew Verda as the woman who’d serve me a treat I loved—apple schnitz, dried sour apple. One year for Christmas she gave me my own batch of it. I think she'd be thrilled to know that some of her things stayed in the family and are still used today.

What items do you use often that help you treasure the memory of a person who is now gone?

The Middle Years of a 90-Year-Old's Life

Dad has always seemed old to me since he was 41-years-old by the time I came along.

So when we celebrated his Christmas Eve birthday a couple weeks ago, his white hair and 90 candles made me realize that now he really is old.

A family picture before me. Standing man: a German foreign exchange student.

What follows catalogs Dad's mid-life years as a 40-50-60-year-old when he raised his last child (me) and began his role as a father-in-law and a grandpa. These are some of the advancements and changes a middle-aged farmer from east central South Dakota experienced from 1954 to 1984.

For Dad's younger years, read the earlier post, First 30 years of My Dad's 90-Year-Old Life. 


Part II: The Next 30 Years


Developments on the Farm: 1954-1964, Decade #4
TV Enters the Home 

After Mom and Dad poured the cement foundation for a granary all by themselves, they weren’t quite sure what to do next until neighbor Josh Hofer came along and offered to help. They paid him a dollar an hour in 1954. When the job was done, Josh earned a $500 bonus.

the granary: the building with a smile, according to my nieces who lived nearby

 

In 1957, a telephone company installed phone lines, quite different from the farmer's lines I wrote about last time. A party line consisted of ten homes per line. Each home had a different ring, so if you wanted to eavesdrop, quietly lift the receiver.

Also in that year, Dad purchased the family's first TV, a Silvertone. Before that, Uncle Jr. was the first one with a television. "The picture was just white fuzz up at Jr.'s," Dad said. "By the time we got ours, the reception was better."

Is that a Silvertone TV behind me one Christmas? (I have stitches by my eye, long story)

In this decade, Dad also bought two 560 International tractors, two cultivators, and two five bottom plows. The landscape of the farm changed in 1963 when two white concrete silos were constructed.

Not long after my Grandma Elizabeth's death in '55 (I wrote about her in Namesake), neighbor Dave T. Decker sold his farm to Dad in 1958. This farm, with one white silo, was a little over a mile away from the main place and would eventually be my brother's home with his wife and five children, the nieces and nephews with whom I grew up.

Elliott's farm in 2011 ~ currently only a sheep barn, not pictured above, remains

Growing Family: 1964-1974, Decade #5

Lots of Lambs and Hogs ~ in other words, a ton of work

A highlight of this decade was witnessing the 1969 moon landing. The folks saw it on TV with Warren and Mary G Wipf while stopping to eat at a truck stop in Mitchell. Mary G was Mom's cousin whom I wrote about here.

The Marken family moved onto the other farm as Dad's hired help, and Dad began raising sheep. Before I was born, the Marken's left, so Dad hired Roy Horsley. Roy raised sheep too, so this was a big help. Dad recalled driving with him all the way to Hutchinson, Kansas, to purchase more sheep. The barn on the second farm was full of them. So full, that they took turns pulling all-nighters to keep an eye on them. 

Sheep, when born, need to be in a small pen with the mother. They can't mingle like calves do, Dad said. They must be given time to adjust. Out of room in the main barn, the men had to shuffle pens around inside and out. It was such a struggle that Roy said he wouldn't go through another lambing season like that. So, not wanting to lose an expert sheep farmer, my progressive father built another barn.

the sheep barn on Elliott's yard in 2011

A problem arose one time when it was time to sheer the sheep. Cold weather arrived, and the heat of the sheep rose to the frosty roof consisting of only plywood with no shingles. The dripping from the roof made the sheep too wet to sheer. Dad rounded up all the Nipco heaters he could find from the neighbors. He hung them from the rafters to dry off the critters, so the scheduled sheep sheering day could proceed.

I barely remember those sheep days. I'd fall asleep on an old couch in the barn after I had been told to get off the bus at Horsley's because everyone was over there tending to the lambs. Ironically, as I was working on this post, Roy passed away. Click here for his obituary. 

here I am bottle-feeding some lambs

In July of 1970, a few days after I turned 4-years-old, the family took their first commercial airplane trip. It was to Detroit for my brother Elliott's wedding. Read Curlers, a Bra, and an Airplane Ride for details about that wedding and others. Elliott eventually moved back to farm with Dad about the time the Horsleys moved back to Wessington Springs, Roy's hometown.

But before Roy left, Dad got into hogs, since Roy was a hog man too. A hog farrowing barn was built, and they'd planned to furrow four times a year. "The first time we weened 400 pigs," Dad said. I wrote about this building here in my Why I Hate Birds series last summer. But by the time Elliott returned to South Dakota to farm with Dad, the building had been sanitized and locked up. He was done with hogs—for now.

In 1973 and 1974, a slick salesman talked Dad into putting up two blue Harvestores with an automated feeding system. I enjoyed the smell of silage and would pretend I was an assembly line worker at McDonald's—only I'd be serving cattle. These blue tubes forever changed the landscape of the farm. Dad now says, "I would have fared very well without that purchase."

the silos and the Harvestores

Trying Times: 1974-1984, Decade #6
Drought & Debt

Had the worst crop in 1976. Dad suffered from migraine headaches.

Pastures were bare. One time he closed off the township road and put a up a "disaster area" sign so the cattle could graze the ditches. By the end of the day, those were bare too.

These are the years in which I grew up.

Dad ended up selling all the cattle. Mom stood at the screen door and cried as the semi trucks drove off with the livestock. But like all farmers, Dad still had hope. Hope for rain, for a crop, for an income.

In retrospect, Dad said he wished he would have kept and cows and sold the feeder cattle, but he followed the predictions that the following year was going to be dry too. It wasn't. The grass grew three feet tall. 

Elliott kept asking Dad, "When you gonna get back into hogs?" Dad said a few days would go by and his son would again ask, "Ever gonna get back to raising hogs?"

And boy did they. Eventually, a larger hog confinement operation was constructed. It included a cage room, a nursery, and a finishing house. My cousin Wilmer Kleinsasser (whom I wrote about here and here), was hired on as a farmhand, and he hauled the pork to Huron for slaughter. I always thought it was rather sad that some hogs never saw the light of day until that fateful ride. Those hogs help pay for my college education.
 

hog barns in 2011, dormant again

Another building came about after my brother-in-law Rick helped Dad and Elliott clear the spot where the Butler Building, a machine shed, was to be located. I loved that building, even though birds sometimes got in, for it was my indoor basketball court—when Dad finally followed through on a promise to get me one. He hired Gene McMillian in the early 80's to create the movable goal—and not the kind that just changed the height of the hoop. The entire thing could be moved, inside or out. It cost $300.

My dad, always the elaborate one. He never does things small-scale.

Despite the stress of the farm, Dad's always been a man of progress and dreams. Farming is a gamble. And the entire family was a part of the risk. A family, that by now, included quite a few grandchildren.

60-years-old ~ behind him is the room of his birth

Do you have relatives like my dad? Any risk takers among your ancestors? Any big dreamers? Maybe you possess those traits and would like to share.

Writer's Note: In the next post, Old Age Creeps In: Decades 7, 8, and 9.

5 Savory Tips for Delightful Cooking

My husband is spoiled. He married a woman who likes to cook—and serve leftovers. I am spoiled too, for he never complains—and I mean never. Here are my five tips for the cook who wants to find her way to her husband's stomach.

One 

A good set of knives. I have Pampered Chef. I do not store them in those wooden knife holders. Used to, but one time I pulled one out and found a smashed up bug on the knife. I promptly bleached all the knives and threw out the wooden block. Sorry sister Brenda, I think you gave me that thing. But I made up for it by showing her how having a large butcher knife to chop up onions and veggies is a lot easier that digging out a chopper and having to clean up all the small parts. I store my knives on my counter top in a Longaberger crock so I can grab them.

homemade jam

Two

A great cookbook. It helps if it is a three-ring—a cook does not need the frustration of trying to keep the pages flat. My husband bought for me, or should I say for him, a Taste of Home cookbook for my birthday at my request. He does not mind me trying new recipes, but I will not be buying anymore $50 sides of beef like I did one year. Tried to make beef Wellington. Total flop. But that setback did not stop me from continuing to try new things. Chris and my step-daughter Brittany and I have a long-standing joke about recipes and me. I have a hard time making simple things like fried eggs, tomato soup from a can, and mac and cheese from a box. Go figure.
 

Harris time 2013 ~ Chris' b-day: Joe & Val's brisket in 2012 ~ Nikki's family in 2009

Three

The desire to learn. The Pioneer Woman’s website has great recipes and easy instructions for a cook at any skill level. Ree Drummond’s pictures make cooking fun. Her TV show does the same. Because of her, I have these items available each week: garlic, onions, heavy cream, cumin, Italian seasoning, crushed red pepper, fresh mushrooms, bell peppers of all colors, and of course, butter and olive oil. Her show is on the Food Network on Saturday mornings. I had never heard of The Pioneer Woman until our neighbor, Travis Ball, who has had business dealings with the Drummonds, told me about her being one of the top bloggers in America. This was back when I did not even know what blogging was. Ironically, my husband graduated with one of the Drummonds from Pawhuska High School in Oklahoma.

our backyard eating spot back ~ this is when Ev met Erik in July 2008

Four

The desire to serve others. On more than one occasion, I have crammed many people around two tables in our tiny house to enjoy a meal I prepared. Sometimes we end up in the garage or outside under the pavilion. These are the best of times to me. Family, friends, food, and a reason to get together. I even made my own 40th birthday meal when family came down to Kansas in 2006. My brother-in-law Rick could not believe how I was up at seven in the morning preparing ribs for the noon meal. Sometimes, I flub up, like not knowing the lack of power of a borrowed crock pot and the food is not ready, but that's when a sister-in-law like Tammy steps in to save the day. So humble yourself and ask for help.

preparing one of my birthday meals in my pajamas

Five

Color. In a couple weeks when we will all be loosening our belt buckles a bit after the big meal, remember that someone is planning right now on how to make your Thanksgiving feast enjoyable. Not every meal can be a spread like that, but presenting an attractive plate full of color, as my high school home ec teacher Kathy Olsen taught us to do, is just as important as the taste of the food.

my pretty plate of Aunt Grace's lasagna ~ a favorite of my brother-in-law Lawrence's

Do you have any words of advice as we enter the holiday season of eating and entertaining? How about short cuts or tips for not getting stressed out about it all?

homemade buns