Dad Would Have Been 100 Today

Oh Dad, you wanted this day to come, the day you’d be a 100-years-old on December 24, 2024. Probably put your leg on the kitchen counter to brag about your balance and flexibility. Spread out your supplements, demonstrate your workout routine, and show-off the latest exercise equipment you ordered. Used only once, maybe, but you’d keep it, just in case. 

At 96-years-old, you were loving life. Still vital. Independent. Just got a different vehicle, a small pick-up.

But in February of 2021, Erik found you in the late afternoon. We think you’d been exercising and got on the floor to take a nap. Glasses still on your face. You’d texted me that morning, and I had responded, yes, we had school (we’d been having some snow days). That was around 11:45, and I went about my day teaching. You never opened that text.

Later we found paperwork on which the doctor had written, “You have congestive heart failure.” You’d never told anyone. At 96, what would one do? You hated prescription medication and only took blood pressure meds when forced to. Don’t worry, I have all your alternative medicine books. They won’t get burned up. I consult them.

Throughout the years when Mom was alive, she made sure your birthday was deliberately celebrated on Christmas Eve. After church that evening, we'd all gather in the dining room and eat a light supper as you opened your gifts. Always a box or two of Russel Stover chocolates. And angel food cake with frozen strawberries.

Making it to 96 was quite an accomplishment, and your sudden death stunned us all, for you were in good health. But you died where you wanted to–in the house you were born in. So to honor your 100^th birthday, I thought I’d link again the posts I wrote about your nine decades of life: the first 30, the second 30, and the last 30. 

As I go through your personal belongings, I find your heart. Among the items was a CD with this song by Gary Chapman, A Man After Your Own Heart. May those who listen to it find hope in our risen Savior whose birth we celebrate on Christmas Eve, the real reason for the season. 

Little Blue Suitcase

Sentimental me enjoys the occasional walk down memory lane stored away in this cabinet. Read about how we refurbished it here.

my Grandma Elizabeth's cabinet

And as a new calendar year begins, I moved my parents’ funeral memorabilia into the little blue suitcase. How many trips to Kansas from South Dakota did that thing make over the years?

inside it: sympathy cards & funeral info

It flew on an airplane to Detroit for a wedding when I was four. Traveled to Omaha in various Oldsmobiles throughout my childhood to visit cousins at my Aunt Mary and Uncle Jr.'s. It housed shampoo, Dad's cologne, Mom's hairnets, and our toothbrushes. In its later years, most of its trips were only two hours away to sister Priscilla's with Dad's supplements inside. 

Siblings probably thought I was crazy when I took it from the house near rural Hitchcock. What do you want with that? And husband: where are you going to put it?

the little blue suitcase

I have lots of items from home since Dad’s death in February of 2021. And tomorrow on January 2, it will be 18 years since Mom’s passing in 2005. Read more about my mom here and here. That was the year of the Kansas ice storm that shutdown the state for about a week. Now that’s a set of memories for another time.

Until then, reflect, appreciate, and move forward into 2023 with some good habits.

Where do you keep your memories of treasured pictures and newspaper clippings or programs from ball games and concerts? What are you memories of a suitcase from your childhood days?

30 Years Ago Today: I saw the Little Town in the Valley for the 1st Time

I wasn't in the best mood when I came back from northeast Kansas with a note on my dorm room door that read, "Call Don Wells, sup't. at Cheney."

I had just completed another interview. It was the spring of 1989, and I had driven all over the state from South Haven to LeRoy to Winfield to Scott City to Jetmore to Ness City, and Horton to name a few.

The view driving from Horton back to Tabor College in Hillsboro, Kansas, was incredible. The hills, the landscape. But I was tired and prayed aloud if I'd ever get a job in an area that wasn't so far away from a larger city.

So, I traipsed down the flight of stairs in the dorm to the payphone and set up the interview. Yes, a payphone. Back when we had to use a calling card and everyone around us could hear the conversation.

I was drained. Missing too many classes and filling up the Olds Calais on a daily basis. But I needed a job, for I was graduating with an English education degree.

I'm not sure what made me apply at Cheney. Was it the visit to the district's booth at the Fort Hays job fair when Russ Busenitz and I drove out there from Tabor College one spring day? No one else went, and there were other potential teachers graduating that spring. Why were we the only two to go?

where it all began

Or did I see Cheney's opening on a paper print-out in the career development office in the TC Library? Spent a lot of time there looking at the teacher openings. Spent a lot of money on stamps too sending out application letters and transcripts. So different from today. I also received by mail, the South Dakota teacher openings bulletin and even had an interview lined up at Miller in my home state once college was out.

But I went ahead and called USD 268 to set-up the interview. It was for Friday, May 5, 1989. I don't remember seeing any students or athletes around, so the interview must have been later in the day. Maybe I requested that time, so I wouldn't miss anymore classes.

My interview began with the 7-12 principal, Dick Wells. No relation to the school's superintendent, Don Wells. This was back when principals and superintendents interviewed the teachers, not a team of potential colleagues (although the Winfield interview was done in that manner due to the team-teaching nature of the position).

what a jewel, this note from Jim Gillett on day one

The Cheney opening was for a 7th and 8th grade literature teacher. Literature. Not really my thing. I preferred writing, grammar, punctuation. And my student teaching experience included 9-12 at Halstead High. Would I want to teach jr. high students? I did have coaching experience with them at Hillsboro Middle School during my college years. So, maybe.

The current literature teacher, Theo Voth, was going to be the 7-12 librarian, so that's why there was an opening. I was reassured she'd be able to guide me if I needed help. Theo also taught public speaking, which the district called oral communications due to certification issues. Since she would be taking over the yearbook, they wanted me to have the public speaking duties. I never got to meet Theo during the interview, but I did get introduced to co-workers, Paula Voth and Jack Goss.

school year #1: 1989-90

Next I had my interview with the superintendent. He was conversational and pleased with my interest in basketball. Seems they'd been wanting a woman on the coaching staff for the high school. And for years that was the norm. Always had to have a female on the bench. You can read more about my coaching and teaching life at Cheney by clicking here on my school website.

Sup't. Don Wells also wanted me to get certified to teach speech, something that would require more college classes. This was almost a deal breaker for me. It had already taken me five years to get the degree I had because I'd changed my major my sophomore year.

But I liked the small school atmosphere of Cheney, the proximity of the classrooms, the size of the town, and its closeness to Wichita where my sister Brenda lived. I agreed, that if offered the position, I would do my best to get as many hours as I could towards that speech certification.

Mr. Wells wrapped up the interview by assigning me an essay. I do not remember the topic. He handed me his pen and told me to sit in his chair behind his desk. We said our goodbyes, and I was to leave when done.

No other interviewer had asked me to do that. It didn't phase me a bit. I had been editor of our college newspaper for two years, so I welcomed the chance show him one of my strengths. I sure would like a copy of what I wrote. Maybe it's in my personnel file.

I had not worn my typical interview outfit that day. Was I tired of it? Was it even clean? Instead, I wore a crisp white oxford type shirt and a black and white skirt. It wasn't new. And after I landed this job, my sentimental nature kept me from giving it to charity until many years later.

That interview outfit: me on the right.
I'm with college pals Julie & Teresa in 1983.
The only picture I've taken with Santa.

Afterwards, I drove around the town to check out the homes and the environment. I chuckled wondering if I could ever live here with all the dips at the intersections. You see, my car had a hook installed in the front of my car in case I ever needed to be pulled out of a ditch. Dad's South Dakota thinking.

I called my sister from the payphone in the southwest corner of the Jim's Foodliner parking lot. I love telling students there used to be a payphone there.

We met on the west side. I remember telling Brenda that I liked Cheney, but there was one teacher I met, a long black-haired lady, and she was quite the whipper-snapper.

Yes, that was my first impression of Paula Voth. Don't worry, I told Paula this story when she retired.

I began fantasizing about having an apartment in west Wichita and driving to work in Cheney. I'd be all grown-up and on my own. Making my own money. Dad would not be telling me what to do.

And that could have happened because Cheney did offer me the job. And I did accept it. And I did go back to take some classes that summer at Wichita State University. Interpersonal communications and introduction to radio and television. Spending more money to make money. Isn't that the saying? But once my Cheney job started, I did not live in Wichita. Cheney became my home.

in the dorm signing the teaching contract

In fact, I didn't even get to pick out my first apartment. Dad, Mom, and Brenda did that. They drove to Cheney during the weekend of my graduation, found me a one-bedroom apartment, and put down a deposit. They saw Wilma Brandes walking among the Jefferson Condos on 2nd Street. I learned later that she was Theo's aunt. Wilma got them in touch with Stan and Darlene Woolf who owned the unit. The rest is history.

When my family came to Hillsboro on graduation day and told me this, can you imagine me being okay with that? I can't either, but I guess I was. One less thing to worry about.

That's how it all began.

Whenever I'm returning to Cheney from Wichita and arrive at the top of St. Joe Road, there's rarely a time I don't recall that day. The day I first drove over that hill. Thirty years ago today.

It's a beautiful scene.

The little town in the valley.

My home.

Accolades To My Third Grade Teacher

My third grade teacher, Mrs. Esther Gilchrist, was picky about manners. We had personal hygiene checks. She checked our fingernails once a week and required us to fill out a chart about brushing our teeth. I think I lied on it.

If anyone’s finger got close to their nose, Mrs. Gilchrist would say the student’s name, tap her nose, shake her head, and say, “No-no.” 

Only a certain number of people could be walking around the room at a time. If we were in the library area, we squatted down. That way someone else could get up to turn in a paper or go the mathematics table. At times we looked like a bunch of Jack in the Boxes when she was busy with a reading group.

Why were we walking around during class anyway? Now that I think of it, Mrs. Gilchrist trusted us. She gave us a lot of freedom for being 8-year-olds. Here’s a rundown.

Me, in 3rd grade. I look ornery.

During work time, if we had to go to the restroom, I don't remember having to ask her—maybe because she was busy with a reading group. We signed a piece of paper taped to the back of her desk. I think we missed part of recess then.

We never ever sat in rows. Our desks were arranged in teams of four or six. Facing each other. 

Nobody sat in teams in 1975! Mrs. Gilchrist was before her time. I love that.
 
In the fall, our desks were arranged in a big square around a huge map of the town. I accidentally spilled milk on it during our cracker and milk break.

Mrs. Gilchrist was so gracious to me. I ruined part of it, but she knew I didn't do it on purpose. I don't remember if she let me have my snack at my desk anymore—wouldn't blame her if she placed me off to the side.

That map confused me too because I didn't know Hitchcock. I was a farm kid who’d never walked the streets of the town. I had a vague idea what a block was, but when we went to collect leaves, I was rather intimidated—my classmates seemed to know exactly where they were going, but I didn’t.

Up near the front of Mrs. Gilchrist’s classroom was a long table with a few record players and headphones. We'd listen to multiplication songs. We worked at our own pace memorizing and then quizzed out when we were ready to move on. Individual learning plan of sorts, I’d say—in the 70s, mind you—in rural South Dakota.

Like I said, Mrs. Gilchrist was ahead of her time.

Class of 1984 as 3rd graders at Hitchcock Elementary

It was in third grade math that I learned a trick. For 8+7 equaling 15, she taught us to think 7+7=14 +1 equals 15. To this day, that is how I figure out 8+7. I do a similar thing with 8+9. Those two answers aren't automatic for me. I do that trick every time when I’m adding in my head. Wonder if anyone else from the Class of 1984 does that. 

In 1974-75 school year, our classroom teachers also taught physical education. Mrs. Gilchrist had two long poles that we’d hold six to eight inches off the floor and then snap together in various rhythms that she taught us. Another set of students would do some sort of hopping maneuver through the poles.

I don't remember her demonstrating this, for she was an elegant lady who reminded me of Mrs. Howell on "Gilligan's Island," but she must have shown us. YouTube didn’t exist and a reeled movie was treat. 

This was the year we started going to the multi-purpose room for music. That’s where I took clarinet lessons a few years later from Mr. Wiens—read about the time he showed up at my house by clicking here. This was the huge room where Mrs. Gilchrist taught us to square dance.

Growing up Mennonite Brethren, we didn't dance, but Mom and Dad had no problem with me learning to square dance. I’d secretly hoped they'd say I couldn't do it, for we had to dance with the boys. Wasn't quite my thing—even though third grade was the year I married Jeff Waldner out by the cottonwood trees at recess. Anybody else have a grade school marriage?

Had you asked me as a child or a high school student if Mrs. Gilchrist was one of my favorite teachers, I’d have said, “No way!” She was too prim and proper. Too picky. Too lady-like. Too soft-spoken. Yes, I prefer boisterous teachers. Does that surprise anyone?

But now as an adult and a teacher myself, I see her in a more positive light. She had a way of engaging us in the course work. She insisted on neatness and order. She certainly knew her subject matter and beyond. She presented lessons with a mixture of traditional paper/pencil, hands-on activities, and technology. 

Maybe I am kind of like her. Minus the prim and proper because I teach middle school—we are far from proper. 

Because of Mrs. Gilchrist, I know the four food groups (this was before the food pyramid) which we charted on the chalkboard each day after noon recess. I know my cardinal directions, can write in cursive (although it sloppy now), and can function within a group. I understand arithmetic but am still waiting for the metric system to be fully adopted into American society like she said it would.

Mrs. Gilchrist

I look at her picture now, the one she gave me when I was her student. I see a pretty lady. Hair just so, straight teeth, lovely clothing, and hardly any make-up. She really was a beauty. Just as beautiful on the inside too in the way she dealt with me.

May she somehow know that this little girl really is sorry for writing Todd Tollefson a note asking him if he farted. I was pulled in the hallway and told, “Young ladies don’t talk like that. I’m really disappointed in you, Melodie.”

She had every right to call me out on that.

It’s a good thing though, that she didn’t see me place my hand flat on my desk and bend under all my fingers but one. Third grade was the year I figured out what the middle finger meant. I may not have been able to maneuver a city block, but I knew what the cows and the bulls were doing on the farm. I made the connection one day to the middle finger and realized it all.

Stunned. Grossed out. Looked at adults in a completely different way. Didn’t like that I knew that. I probably asked my best friend Gail, two years older, if I was right. Read more about Gail here.

This was also the year that Gail and I, along with the high school girls we copied, got in trouble for writing on the school bus seats—in ink pen. Mrs. Gilchrist never said a word to me about it. She must have known I was already embarrassed when Superintendent Dale Schneider called me out of her class one morning to go scrub the seats with Comet. Read more about Mr. Schneider by clicking here.

Third grade was a lot of firsts. I got glasses, started piano lessons, and was allowed to spend the night at a friend’s house. I got my own Bible too. Looks like I needed that considering my fart-word use (my dad still forbids the use of that word; read where I learned the word here), vandalism, and discovery of the meaning of the f-word.

Thank you, Mrs. Gilchrist, for being one of the many who molded me.


Which teacher was in your life during your biggest times of discovery and mischief? What educator have you changed your mind about as the years have passed?

I was a Paint by Numbers Kid

I can only draw stick figures, but my father wanted me to be an artist.

When I was in grade school, he was willing to pay for art lessons at The Orange Crate in Huron. But Mom said I was busy enough with school, church, and piano lessons. She bought me paint-by-number kits instead.

My art friends are cringing. Sorry.

Dad didn't give up though. He moved on to another medium. Photography.

I was a high school sophomore one Sunday afternoon when we drove to Lewis Drug in Huron, and he bought me a Canon 35-millimeter camera. That spring he insisted I attend a photography class on Monday nights at Huron College. I did. The information was way over my head. 

But that's my dad, Mr. You-Need-To-Get-Educated.

I didn’t understand aperture and f-stops (and I still don’t), so I put the camera on program and away I went snapping shots for the yearbook.

As a college freshman, I enrolled in introduction to photography, again at Dad’s insistence. I didn't understand the book work (again the f-stops and aperture confused me), so I bombed the paper/pencil quizzes.

I could take the pictures and earned good marks for my photos, but I didn't want a C or worse to start out with, so I dropped the class—only it was beyond the two-week grace period to do so. I have big fat W for withdrawal on my transcript.

I continued to play around with taking pictures, especially with black and white film when I was at home in the summers on the farm. Two young nieces who lived nearby served as my models.

I coerced Suzanne and Jessica to display downtrodden faces and pose by old buildings around their home and mine. I dug up an old rusty lantern, some tin cans and books as props. We had fun in the early 90s on our little photo shoots in rural South Dakota. I did the same with my Walter niece and nephews who lived two hours away.

These photos were a big hit with my brother-in-law Glen who lives in Kansas near me. He liked the black and white pictures so much that they displayed them in their home for awhile.

It was during this time that Martha Brohammer, my friend and colleague, re-taught me how to use the dark room to develop the film. I had been taught that in the college course I’d dropped. She was the art and Spanish teacher when I came to Cheney.

I wouldn't know how to function in a dark room today and am glad digital photography came along.

Melodie's KSN Shot of the Day in May 2010

In 2004, I bought my first digital camera, a point and shoot thing. In 2006 for Christmas, my husband Chris bought me a better one since my old camera failed to capture the beautiful fall foliage of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, where we were married.

Then in 2009, he bought our first camera with the swing-out viewfinder, so we could have decent videos of his daughter Brittany's singing and acting events. 

Thus began Chris’ photography hobby. He's had many cameras since and continues to dabble and learn. It's been fun watching him develop into an artist and actually sell his work on Fine Art America. He passed me up months ago. His Facebook photography page, Framing Kansas, is three-years-old this month with over 12,000 followers.

 

It’s still fun to remind him though that I was the first one with a KSN photo of the day. A shot of a bird, of all things, whose mouth was full of worms. Leon Smitherman of Kansas Today, dubbed it "Breakfast of Champions" in May 2010.

Has anyone ever tried to turn you into something you're not? Did you develop any little bit of the desired skill?

The Legacy Mom Left

I found a note today that I'd written on the back of a program. Seemed fitting to find it today, the anniversary of my mother's death in 2005. It's been eleven years. The year of the ice storm. What follows is a transcript of the note I wrote in 2008. 
   

As I sit here at the women's conference after the singing and worship portion, I'm so thankful that all the adult women in my family are born-again Christians. Our lifestyles are different. Professionals, moms, retired ladies, missionary-types,  single, married, and step-moms.

Mom, as a teenager babysitter

Oh, how precious it is for me to rest in the fact that Jesus is your Savior. My prayer is for all the little souls who will come after us, my great nieces and nephews, that they will have the faith we do and pass it on.

I think often of Yos, my great-great-grandpa on my mom's side. He'd be proud of us! He'd traveled here from Russia, left the colony to live the American life of freedom. I'm so glad he did.

May whatever you're doing today as you get my hand-scribbled note [it seems I'd planned to copy this and mail it but never did], may you remember that the choices we make affect future generations, just like Yos' did.

Just like Stella's did when she went forward to accept Christ as a young woman all those years ago. And Dad followed. Maybe you don't know that story [most do now since it was shared at a reunion this summer], but it's an awesome example of how one little, yet very important, decision changed the course of lives.

That's what it said. That note. Full of gratitude and yearning.

I must have come home from the retreat and stored it away. It was well into the morning today when I realized this was the day Mom had passed on. Then in mid-afternoon, I found the pink note. Seems Mom was giving me something to blog about at the start of this new year.

She wouldn't like today's world. We have strife. Seems worse than ever, she'd say.


Economical. Racial. Political. Religious. Even within our Christian faiths, Catholic and Protestant alike, we disagree on many so things. Mom would say, "Devil's havin' fun amongst us."

But one thing never changes: Christ's love for us. The gift of eternal life through His son.

I'll close with another one of Mom's favorite sayings when she didn't know what to say when people's behavior seemed to disappoint our human thinking, "I'm sure glad I'm not the judge."

I'm certain the judge on the throne found her faithful.

My Worst Christmas Gift Ever

I asked my seventh grade students about the worst present they've ever received at Christmas time. The discussion came up while reading my favorite tear-jerker holiday story, "A Christmas Memory" by Truman Capote.

Responses: a phone book, a sack of dog poop, a gift card with $1 on it. Not the greatest of Christmas gifts.

After hearing those, my worst-present-ever story isn't so bad, but I'm going to tell it anyway. Not out of ingratitude, out of humor.

I'd asked for typewriter one year because I loved to type. I had the "every good man must come to the aid of his country" phrase down. Piano playing from age eight came in handy when typing. After counting my errors on an exercise one day, I had typed 90-some words a minute in Mrs. Zieman's business class at HHS. 

So, I wanted a typewriter. Bad. Begged for one. Really begged. I knew that's what was in the rectangular heavy box under the tree when I was a young high school student.

To my dismay, that's not what was in it. No modern Smith Corona for me.

It was an electronic foot soaker. My dad's idea.

Grandma Katie, my mom's mom who'd lived with us when I was younger, frequently soaked her feet in a tub of sudsy hot water. I would do it too. Read more about Grandma Katie here. Long after Grandma was out of the house, I still soaked my feet. In fact, I still do it today. It's especially relaxing with a cup of hot tea, a dog or two, and a good book or the remote tuned to the Lifetime Movie Channel.

With the foot soaker gift, my observant father believed he was giving me, his teenage daughter, a present she'd appreciate, but the snotty only used it once. Mom was scared I'd electrocute myself.

So that was my worst Christmas present ever.

I did end up getting a typewriter—maybe for my birthday that summer—and in typical Dad-fashion, it was the Cadillac of typewriters. He tends to go overboard on things. Gets the deluxe version when the typical will do. I married a man just like him. I'm lucky, but I admit, the unappreciative girl comes out in me sometimes.

My best Christmas present? If we're taking about material things, I'm not sure I have one. But the best present was Jesus Christ whose birth is celebrated by Christians around the world. I call Him Savior. He is the one still shaping this girl into the woman He wants her to be.

And with that I say, Merry Christmas!


How about you? Want to reveal your least favorite Christmas present? Who was it from? Why did they give it to you? Or, maybe you want to share the worse gift you've ever given. 

Thankful to be a Child of the 70s: Round 2

The 1970s don't get enough credit, so I'm here again this Thanksgiving to point out some of my childhood favorites. To read last year's piece, click here.

My Room Decor

graphic from http://mama-ilse.typepad.com

When Grandma Katie was put in the nursing home, Mom redecorated the downstairs bedroom for me. Dad purchased a single bed from an auction at neighbor Pauly Walter's. Read about him here and read about Grandma Katie here.

Mom bought a Holly Hobbie bedspread and matching window shades. This was the first bedroom that I remember calling mine. Prior to that, I slept in the living room. A crib was in there, and when I got older, I slept on the pull-out love seat because I was too chicken to sleep alone upstairs.

It was in this decorated room that I developed my fear of lightning storms and Big Foot. Long story.

My First Record Album

picture from http://www.denverpost.com

I bought a 45 of the Carpenter's "Top of the World" hit at the Ben Franklin store in Huron one Saturday morning. Mom had given me two bucks spending money while she got her hair done.

A few years ago, I bought a Carpenter's greatest hits album and loaded it on my iPod. When I played the song in preparation for this post, I remembered almost every word.

If someone had told me to write down the lyrics, I'm not sure I could have. But the memories flooded back upon hearing the music. Funny how the brain works. Click here to hear the lyrics. 

For those that don't know, the brother-sister duo of Richard and Karen Carpenter were known for the harmonic tunes. Karen Carpenter died in 1983 with complications due to anorexia. Read more about that here and here. It was during the 80s, my high school years, when eating disorders became a topic of public concern. The Denver Post ran a book review piece about the Karen Carpenter story. Click here to read it.

A Candy My Family Liked

picture from https://s-media

The combination of chocolate and caramel was found in a Rothchild's nugget. The tasty tidbit is similar to a Rolo.

The company's marketing campaign including a silly saying performed in a British accent. Click here and here for a couple of those commercials. I know, corny, but catchy.

My dad and brother Elliott would often repeat the famous line, "Not now, I'm right in the middle of a Rothchild's" to anyone they talked to. They even answered the phone that way sometimes. Read more about my brother's antics here.

The Rothchild's saying lightened anyone's mood. I wish this candy was still around. Don't know what happened to it. Or the Marathon Bar. Or Freshen-Up gum. Or Melody Pops, the sucker with a whistle.

A Favorite Saturday Morning Show

picture from http://www.sheknows.com

The time travel show, "The Land of the Lost," started in the 70s, not the early 90s when Hollywood attempted a re-make. I never watched it; maybe I should have. Watch a trailer of the 1970s version here.

The graphics? My goodness. So fake. But back then I didn't care. I liked the story line, or should I say, the older brother.

The music? Too upbeat for what happened to this family.

My husband Chris says the Sleestak creatures still give him the creeps. You can see the critters here in the entire first episode.



What memories do you have of these 70s icons? For my younger readers, feel free to critique my child-of-the-70s favorites.

His CB Handle was the Auditor

Veteran's Day is special in my family, but not for the usual reason. It's my brother Elliott's birthday. 

He was college-aged by the time I was born. And my sisters were young teenagers.

When he moved home to farm with Dad in April 1971, he lived less than two miles away from the home place. I was 5-years-old then.

Elliott is the one sibling who saw me almost every day of my growing up years—unlike my sisters who came and went throughout their adult years.

May Elliott's wife, five children, and thirteen grandchildren enjoy these memories from his three little sisters.

Tidbits from Childhood 

Priscilla's said 

Elliott kept the Sunday bulletins. He stored them in cigar boxes in his bedroom. He collected the eraser end of pencils. He drowned out gophers by pouring buckets of water down the hole.

Brenda said

When Mom & Dad would leave us kids home alone for a few hours, Elliott and I tended to pick on Priscilla, the middle child. Guess we got away with it because she never fought back.

 Melodie said

My earliest memory of Elliott is when he and his fiance came home and gave me a doll. I have no memories of Elliott without Doris, his wife. I turned four a few days before their wedding. I wrote about that in this post.

Doris and I were in a roll-over car accident before they had any children. As Dad made phone calls to authorities about it, Doris cooked lunch, and I sat in Elliott's lap with my arms wrapped around his neck. I can still see our reflection in the glass of the china closet in the dining room.

That's the tender moment I remember with my brother, 20 years my senior. Soon after he had his own children to provide affection to. 

Elliott, a Tabor College graduate, congratulated by sisters Brenda & Priscilla

Farm Work

Brenda said

I would drive the small tractor, and as I slowly drove past each bale in the field, he would use two hooks to hoist those heavy alfalfa bales onto a flat wooden pallet of sorts called the stone boat. Strange name, but Dad confirmed that's what they called it. After a full load, the bales were placed on a conveyor and sent put into the barn loft. Elliott worked up a sweat stacking those heavy bales.

Priscilla said

I would drive the tractor when we made bales. When, not if, I would plug the baler, the bale hook Elliott had in his hand would go into the air. I don't remember what he would yell.

Melodie said

I too have have memories of Elliott's yelling at the hogs or cattle. He never cussed. Never. Instead, he made up his own crazy words when he was mad—especially at the hogs. Things like, "You stupid, flyswatter, snot-driven, pan of no-good slime." That wasn't exactly what he said, but it would be crazy nonsense like that.

At top: Elliott's birthday in 1971 with me on his lap. Bottom: Elliott in July 2015.

A Numbers Guy 

Brenda said

Elliott was and is such a math wiz. He'd try to help me, but I think he had a hard time coming down to my level of understanding.

Melodie said

I earned good grades in high school algebra and geometry because Elliott and Dad would take turns yelling at me. I say that light-hardheartedly because they both just talked loud. I'd hear, "It's just like the other problem. Do the same thing!”

Or if a new concept emerged, Elliott would say, "Do it like the teacher did in class? He showed you, didn't he?" And yes, Mr. Frank Podraza showed us.

the family, long before me (not sure who the fella is in the back)

Games 

Melodie said

Playing Scrabble with Elliott is a maddening endeavor. He uses words that no one knows and is able to put them going vertically and horizontally—and they all match up as words!

Elliott has always been academic minded. He's well-read, loves a pun and a play-of-words. Mom was always proud of her son who could tell a joke and never ruin the punchline.

Do your siblings have any quirky childhood collections like my brother? Any games you avoid with them because they are too good?

Take the Long Way Home

It's Halloween. Time to admit what scares me: nighttime driving on the gravel road directly south of my dad's farm. Here's the reason.

I was in the backseat dozing after a Sunday evening in town with Mom and Dad. We'd often go in to visit relatives or to hear my sister Priscilla sing in "The Power and Light," a Christian singing group from the Huron Mission Church that performed in the Lewis Drug parking lot. 

I heard footsteps on gravel and Dad asking someone if he needed help. The voice grunted a reply.

Dad returned to the car with a report. "He's lost, but he said to leave him alone. Doesn't want any help."

Our car lights shined on a lug wrench in the middle of the road and an open trunk as Dad drove on the shoulder to get by the vehicle. It was dark already, so I didn't see the man.

But I sure did that night in my dreams and every time I woke up because I had heard Dad say the fella's name and that the guy was drunk.

This man lived a few miles from our place, and he was obviously confused, so my pre-teen brain imagined him getting passed our dog and mistaking our house for his and yelling his daughter's name up the stairway to me. And when I wouldn't come, he'd drag me down thinking I was his disobedient daughter and beat me up.

I never dreamed or imagined my parents intervening, or our dog taking care of him. A child's imagination and fears are not rational to adults.

But this adult still refuses to drive down that road at night. I go the long way around.


What incident stands out as a scary memory that impacts your behavior now? Do your child's fears change your routine?

Sentimental Shirts Reveal Relationships

I was destined to be a Tabor College Bluejay. This picture of me from the '70s proves it. That shirt ended up in the rag drawer after I wore it out. It cleaned glass and mirrors.

Another favorite childhood top was one of those "happiness is" t-shirts that bore my dog's name. I was already in high school when Hitchcock Boy became my puppy, but Mom and Dad ordered a toddler sized shirt, so I never got to wear it. I know, Hitchcock Boy is a long name for a dog.

My sister and her husband Rick lived near Bridgewater—some two hours away. Their dog, Rambunctious—yes, another long name, had puppies.

Pris picked a puppy out of the litter for me and dubbed him Hitchcock Boy since that's where he'd be living. I was a Hitchcock Bluejay, living on the family farm 12 miles east of the town. Hmm, I see a pattern here with bluejays. And I don't even like birds! Read about that fear here, here, and here.

I do own another bluejay shirt. The coveted Tabor College Intramural Champ T-shirt. Earning one of these in the '80s was a big deal. Maybe this post will find its way to a current TC student and I'll find out if that's still the case.

I couldn't have earned one of these my freshman year because I played, or should I say warmed the bench, on the women's team, so I wasn't eligible to play intramural basketball. But one of the following years, my team won. I remember Maura Janzen and maybe Darcie Wilkins being on my team.

Back in those days, Maurice's was my clothing store of choice, and I still fit into a loose top from there. I think Mom paid $15 for the sleeveless, two-pocket, curvy collared shirt. It's super short on me now and shows my belly button, but it sure is comfy.

I use an old Florida sailboat T-shirt in the same way. Got that from my sister Brenda after one of her trips there with her first husband John. She knew I had a thing for sailboats. I collected figurines and enjoyed pictures of them. A strange interest for a landlocked girl who's never been on a sailboat.

The last shirt of value to me is now my painting shirt. It was a graduation present from my high school friend Bruce Pageler. It's of Garfield saying, "I'm not just another pretty face." Bruce, two years my senior, was the first guy who ever referred to me as pretty. That shirt will never end up in the rag drawer.



Any sentimental clothing in your drawers? What made you keep it? Can you fit in it? Do you own a t-shirt quilt displaying all the teams you've been a member of?