Sally and Meghan - Gestures - Kathy

 Sally and Meghan

Gestures

Kathy Heim

Sally and Meghan became best friends when their families vacationed on the shores of Lake Erie.  Sally came from a suburb in Detroit, and Meghan lived in Cincinnati.  They were the same age,10, and they loved the same things.  Both could swim like fishes, Both loved to read Nancy Drew mysteries, and both loved walking along the beach looking for abandoned treasurers.  

Sally was the outgoing one. She was fearless and loved to try new things. One day, when the families were boating, she was the first to tag along behind the boat on a massive black innertube. As the boat sped up, making waves in the wake, throwing the tube into the air, Sally squealed and laughed the whole time, her body flailing and her head nodding for more.  She thought nothing of talking to strangers, and making friends quickly. She was the kind of girl who smiled and waved at strangers, and gave little kids a thumbs-up signal to show her friendliness. Everyone wanted to be her friend. 

Meghan, on the other hand, was reserved and cautious. She lowered her head and observed others when introduced to something new.  When it was her turn to hop on the tube, she shook her head no when asked if she wanted to boat to speed up.  Sally’s leaps into the air and splashing down onto the water, seemed scary to her.  Meghan was slow to make friends, often slinking back and reluctantly reaching her hand out to shake hands.  People thought she was shy, but in reality, she was just cautious, waiting for the right time to engage.  Sally was the first friend she warmed up to right away.  The moment they met, Sally smiled at her, grabbed her hand right away, and didn’t give her a chance to back away. From that moment on the girls became inseparable.  

Meghan and Sally loved their time at the shore. They looked for “treasures” along the beach. One would wave to signal a special find and they would inspect each one together.  By the end of the summer, the girls had an odd collection of their finds: abandoned fishing gear, a waterlogged book, and even a Wisconsin license plate!  Sally and Meghan spent many nights leaning their heads back to the night sky to look at stars and make their own constellations.  They’d put their heads together and point up, following stars to share their made-up shapes. 

When summer came to an end, and the families were packed up, it was time to say goodbye.  The girls took each other’s hand, and slowly walked along the shore, both reminiscing over their summer, and making plans for the next one.  When their parents waved for them to return, the girls dug their heels deeper into the sand to slow the way, but when they got back to the driveway, each hugged the other before getting in their cars.  As they drove away, they each forced smiles and waved to each other, one heading north and the other south.  Until next summer…

OKC to Louisville - Story with Maps - Kathy

 OKC to Louisville with a five year old

Kathy Heim

Story about maps

The five year old peeked over a paper road map of Missouri, a yellow highlighter gripped in his little right hand, as his deep brown eyes zeroed in on the next mile marker sign.  The map, folded many times to accommodate the size of his booster seat tray, had been marked with the route from Oklahoma City to Louisville, Kentucky.  Even though hours had passed, many more lay ahead for the grandmother and grandson making their way across a 760 mile journey.  

The boy was counting down the miles to the Illinois border, anticipating the big arch he’d heard about.  “200 more miles, Meme,” he announced.  He followed the highway map with his finger and when they came to a city, he put an X on it with his marker.  The last one he marked was Springfield, where they stopped for chicken nuggets and a short walk.  

“Exit 100!”  he squealed and his finger inched along the map.  Soon he nodded off, marker and map still gripped by his hands.  The grandmother drove on, smiling every now and then at the precious child in the rear view mirror.  She taught him how to follow a highway map before the trip began, and he took to it easily.  He could tell where exits were, how to read mile markers, and how to tell how big a city was by the size of the letters.  He could even tell where lakes and rivers were by looking for blue lines and shapes.  This kept him busy when he tired of the videos, toys, and books that he brought along.   

They neared St Louis and traffic was heavy.  Large semis outnumbered the passenger cars making it hard to see.  The grandmother woke the boy a few miles out so he could see the arch.  Even though it would be a challenge, she would stop to visit if the boy wanted.  The little boy fluttered his eyes open and looked out his window.  “Wow”  he breathed in.  The car was nearing the I64 turn off, and the St Louis Arch loomed in the sky.  “That looks like half a McDonalds,” he said as if a bit disappointed.  

“Do you want to stop to go see it?”  the grandmother asked. 

“No way!” he answered, “Illinois is coming up and they have McDonald’s and they have two arches!”

So the grandmother drove on and stopped in Belleville at McDonalds - in time for dinner under the two arches.  “This is the best trip ever, Meme,” he smiled.  “How far is it to Indiana?”  and he got out his map and the two followed the trail along I64 to Indiana.  

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3479 High Street - Kathy

3479 North High Street

Kathy Heim

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she inched past the red brick two-story still standing on the corner of Orchard Lane and North High.  It was her grandmother's house, the house her father and aunts called home, the place she felt cozy and loved as a little girl. An urge to once again walk through that front door and stand in the kitchen, breathe in the memories of roasted chicken and apple pie, touch the door handle of her father’s old room, and run her fingers over the stained banister took over.  A blanket of nostalgia took over, she turned her car around and drove up the driveway leading to the backyard, which was mostly a parking lot now. The garage was gone, however a tall oak was still standing, casting the same shadows she remembered as a little girl. 

The old, cracked sidewalks felt familiar as she neared the front porch.  Brick steps leading up to the lead glass front door stood sturdy and solid.  Visions of a pale green glider, snuggling with cousins and counting the cars, buses, and taxis flashed quickly in her mind. Such a sweet and innocent time. The music Peggy Sue’s Homecoming played in her mind as she tentatively turned the brass doorknob.  A used record store was now in front of her, and a pudgy older man with a white unkept beard introduced himself.  

“This used to be my grandmother’s house,” she told him and he graciously invited her to look around. The upstairs, where the bedrooms were, where she once spent the summer, where she spent hours upon hours watching the traffic, was now an apartment, could not be part of today’s tour down memory lane.  

What she saw was not in front of her. What she did see were memories: A recliner next to the grand fireplace, sitting on her grandmother’s lap and pinching her old hands watching the veins pop up and then slowly lower,  playing with a lead glass bunny, gliding it over the scrolling wool carpet,  watching rainbows cast from the chandelier in the dining room. Visions of her Meme, mom and aunts cooking in the crowded kitchen shooing kids outside and out of the way made her smile. Flashbacks sparked images of talking on the old black corded telephone which sat in an alcove at the bottom of the stairs and she wondered how many times had that phone rang to wake up her grandfather with a medical emergency, or used by her father to ask girls out on dates? 

Coming back to the present, she ran her hand over the solid oak banister remembering stories her father told of him jumping off the landing and getting in trouble.  Stories of patients ringing the front doorbell to get help from her grandfather. She could imagine her grandmother waking him up and hustling next door to his office to assist as his nurse.  

The old gentleman left her alone to reminisce and gave her time to soak the house in. When her memories ran out, and when she felt the magic start to wean, she thanked the old man and walked out of the house and to her car. Not knowing if she’d ever see this home again, she gave it one last glance, wiped a tear from her eye and turned south on High Street.

Allie Albertine, Curmudgeon - Nez

  Allie Albertine, Curmudgeon

By Nez Nesmith

Townsfolk referred to him as the “mad Hungarian”. He mostly kept to himself, rarely smiled, was usually angry, obviously didn’t like being around people. But you couldn’t really talk with him because he usually didn’t respond. And if he did speak, he yelled. The essence of Allie was that he was a lonely and sad man. That was my definition of a curmudgeon. And yet he was an interesting character with contradictions. 

Allie Albertine, our curmudgeon in Lyman, Washington, in the 1950’s, ran one of the most productive and successful dairy farms in the state. Carnation Milk Company sent tank trucks to the farm every other day to collect about 800-900 gallons of milk from stainless steel tanks in the farms’ milk house. 

Allie was the youngest of eight Albertine children. There were three girls and five boys. Their parents had emigrated from Hungary in the late 1800s’s. All of the Albertine kids were born at home in Lyman, where they were raised and schooled. 

Allie and Frank, the oldest boy, and Della, the youngest girl, kept the Albertine Family farm going. Ernie, another brother, was married and had his own dairy farm about four miles to the west, and Mary, a sister, and her husband Bill Trueman, had yet another dairy farm about a mile east of Lyman. Dairy farming was in their blood. Allie was in charge of the Albertine Family farm in Lyman, Della kept house, did the payroll and books for the farm and cooked, and Frank tended the vegetable garden and fruit orchard and helped out wherever he could, and sneaked a drink whenever he could. All three were single. They knew almost everybody in town, yet rarely left the farm, except for Frank driving their beautiful black 1952 Buick to the tavern a couple of nights each week.  

At one time or another most Lyman boys worked for Allie in their teenage years. I was no different, except that I worked for him longer than most. Allie typically fired or ran off most of his workers within a few days, weeks or months. Anyway, when I worked for Allie in 1957 and 1958, we milked around 50 cows twice daily. 

Instead of running the cows through a milking parlor Allie used the huge old barn, which was kept in tiptop shape and was painted white, inside and out. There were rows of stanchions on both sides of the barn, with the feed and hay area in the middle, with a huge hayloft above. One side had 15 stanchions, the other 18, so initially we in 33 cows in for feeding and milking as the radio played music. As soon as each cow was milked, it was released from its stanchion and another cow took its place. This was done until all cows were milked. And they produced a lot of milk. We milked about 50 cows in less than two hours. 

There were actually between 57 and 60 cows in the herd, but after about 9-10 months or so after giving birth a cow’s milk production decreases a lot, so a few of them are “dried up” for about two months until they have their next calf. For the time that I worked there I don’t think we ever milked fewer than 47 cows twice daily.) 

Allie used eight gallon stainless steel milk cans/pots for milking. He had two milking machines on each side of the barn, and there were six cans, all of  which we moved from one cow to next. When nearly full the fresh milk pots weighed between 55 and 70 pounds and that’s when one of us ran it out to the milk house and poured it into a refrigerated 500 gallon stainless steel tank. There were two of these huge tanks. We lifted the pot about four feet and poured the milk into the storage tank without spilling any on the floor. And you didn’t dare drop it. Allie didn’t put up with messes. He might fire you on the spot. He had a crazy temper, and he was emotional and mean when he lost it. That farm was his whole life. 

The Albertine farm was pretty much self-sustaining. They grew most everything they needed. Allie worked on that farm all his life. He was a master of all trades, as opposed to a “jack of all trades, master of none”. Allie could and did design, create, build and or/repair anything and everything on that farm. He was a mechanic, plumber, electrician, welder, carpenter, “midwife” to cows, concrete finisher, veterinarian, artificial inseminator, mason, blacksmith, vendor, painter, and business executive. He managed all the animals. He mowed and baled hay, aerated fields, spread manure fertilizer in fields and did the hay baling. And he was almost deaf from driving that old “Poppin’ Johnny” tractor so much. (A 1940s and 1950s John Deere Tractor with a two-cylinder engine that made a constant and loud “pop-pop” “pop-pop” “pop-pop” “pop-pop” sound. Many a farmer went almost deaf from driving those tractors.) so, whenever I talked to him, I spoke loudly so that he could understand me. He often yelled back at me to stop yelling, but then he wouldn’t hear what I said and yelled, “what?”. I usually only spoke to him when he asked a question. 

Allie was also perhaps the strongest man I have ever known, pound for pound. He stood about five feet nine inches tall, and maybe 160 pounds, but he could lift and move things that a human should not be able to. 

Besides the John Deere tractor, he also had a John Deere hay trailer. That trailer was about 12 feet wide and 24 feet long and had a heavy steel frame with 2x12 plank decking, and a huge wagon tongue. The trailer’s tongue was made of four-inch iron pipe and extended eight feet to the middle and welded to a big steel loop to connect to the tractor or truck hitch. That iron was thick and extremely heavy. That trailer had to weigh a couple of tons, and that tongue was at least 500 pounds of it. 

In my sixteenth summer, I was the head milker and straw boss for that hay season, meaning I got to hire and fire hayfield workers. I didn’t fire any, but Allie did. Also, I was up by 5 a.m., walked to the farm, brought the cows in and began milking by 6 a.m. After milking, we scrubbed the milk house, cleaned the barn, ate a breakfast made by Della and got ready for the hay fields by 9 a.m. Then at 5 p.m. I brought the herd to the barn for the evening milking. Which took about two more hours, plus the cleaning of the milk house and barn. I usually got home by nine p.m. I did this seven days a week. (Mom worried a lot.)

One day, as we were getting ready for the hayfields Allie backed the tractor to within about 2-3 feet from the trailer tongue and called for me to pick up the tongue and put it on the tractor’s trailer hook. I tried but couldn’t even pretend to lift that trailer tongue. He called for two more hay workers to come help me. They were big boys and together we could not budge that 500 lb. tongue. So, Allie jumped down from the tractor, called us “baby wimps”, told us to get out of the way, and proceeded to pick up the trailer tongue, pull the two-ton trailer forward and hooked the tongue to the tractor in one smooth motion all by himself. We stood there in awe. He got back on the tractor, smirked, and yelled, “let’s go”. So, we jumped on the moving trailer.

Another time we were training a young Holstein cow, after her first calf birth, to the milking machine. The cow kept raising a back foot and kicking the cups off, and no milk was coming from her very full udder. This young Holstein cow weighed about 1200 pounds and was almost six feet tall at her hip. Big heavy animal. After she had kicked the cups off about eight or ten times, with Allie constantly trying to soothe her, he got mad and slugged the cow in the hip. That hit moved her about three feet and she almost lost her footing and she bawled loudly. Then Allie calmed down and talked soothingly to her and tried again to put the cups on her. Again, she kicked them off. After another four or five attempts Allie lost his temper and went around the stanchion to face her, and he slugged her right between the eyes. Her legs wobbled and she crumbled, while in the stanchion. Her chin hit the concrete floor and her eyes glazed. He had knocked her out with a single punch. The other milker and I were dumbstruck. We just stood there. When she came to, the young cow was still groggy while attempting to regain her footing. As she stood up Allie put the cups on her again, and she let them stay this time and she gave milk. Boy, did she give milk. Allie teared up and ran out of the barn. As a sixteen year old I never knew how I should react to that incident. It was extremely cruel, yet it worked. (That cow became the best milk producer in the herd. And never kicked the cups off again.) 

Those were two examples of Allies’ strength that I witnessed, and I’m still dumbfounded by both events . 

Whenever a cow calves, it has either a female (heifer) or a bull calf. If the calf was a heifer, Allie would determine whether or not to keep it to be part of the milking herd in the future or to take it to the auction. Most bull calves went directly to auction, but every couple of years he would come home from the auction with a couple of white-face or angus steers (castrated bull calves) to raise as beef for the farm table. 

Whenever Della cooked for the workers, there was always a steak for each worker, and they were delicious. Of course, after working in the hayfields we were hungry. We gobbled up everything she put on the table. 

Putting up hay each summer was a pretty big undertaking. I hired at least eight or nine more guys to work in the hay. Allie drove the tractor and mowed the hay and then baled it, usually in the same day. We picked those bales up off the ground and threw them up onto the hay truck bed or onto the trailer bed. Cables and pullies and hay-hooks raised eight bales at a time of hay into the hayloft. Allie’s GMC pickup was used to pull the cable and hay up to the hayloft. We filled the huge hayloft of the main barn about 30 bales high in the middle and 25 bales long and 25 bales wide and then filled both the lower floor and the hayloft of another large barn about 20 bales high with large rectangular bales of hay. It was hard back-breaking work. I certainly earned my $1.50 per hour pay. 

Sometimes, at the lunch or dinner table, we saw Allie and Della deep in rather quiet conversation, but whenever Allie and Frank talked, they both usually yelled, and would yell at each other to “stop yelling”. Both were hard of hearing but neither admitted it. (In the 1950s I’m not sure there was much to be done about hearing loss.) 

Those two summers that I worked for Allie Albertine I learned and saw a lot of what took place on a dairy farm in the 1950’s. Things have changed a lot since then, some for better and some not. I am forever grateful for that experience; all of it. I think remember most of it, and some I’m sure I’ve already forgotten. 

P.S. 

1. Many years later I found that Albertine’s also paid my social security taxes without deducting anything from my check. 

2. When hearing and understanding conversations became more difficult for me, I learned many of the ramifications of hearing loss. Several times I’ve thought about Allie Albertine’s hearing loss and I realized that almost every condition I used to describe his personality is very often a result of hearing impairment. 

Nez Nesmith 

August 2023

Dear Grandma Buckner - Nez

 Dear Grandma Buckner

By Nez Nesmith

Dear Grandma Buckner, 

You were a crotchety old woman when I was a little kid. Anyway, that’s what we, my sister, brother and I thought. You were our Mom’s grandma. You lived with us while we grew up. You never liked me, or any of us, but you knew who I was. You had me do things for you and to be your eyes at times. You were blind. Mostly, you were angry, bitter and mean, and blind. We got used to that. To us, that’s who you were. I was always disappointed about that though. Grandma, I wished that you had been nice and would have told us stories, stories where we all laughed. You didn’t. I wished you were  a grandma that we all loved being around. You weren’t. 

Grandma, after I grew up, I felt that there was a hole in my life, in my upbringing, and I realized that hole was partially you. Surely, somehow you must have loved us, loved me. You were there for my whole upbringing, but you refused to take part in my growing up. You were there, but you really weren’t. I have lamented over that my whole life. I was involved in many things that you might have enjoyed. You might have even been proud of me. You missed a lot of great times. We were pretty fun kids. I know it’s too late for that now. You’ve been gone a long time. But I still have questions. I hope the answers to those questions come about, but sadly I won’t set my expectations very high. Here are some of my first questions.

Question 1. Do you even know why you were so angry and mean? You showed no compassion for anyone or anything. I know you were blind, but people, including your own kids, said you were always that way, before you went blind. That being the case, I’ve always wondered why in the world Grandpa Buckner married you in the first place. He was really likable. You weren’t.  He loved all the kids and grandkids and great-grandkids. You didn’t. The two of you were married sixty years before he passed. What happened in your life that made you so angry, bitter and mean for so long? 

Question 2. You were half-Cherokee Indian, and you looked it. We always admired that about you and loved the fact that we had Indian blood. We were never sure which of your parents was Indian and which was white. Curiously your own kids weren’t sure either. They never knew your parents, their grandparents, and I guess you never told them. As the mother of six kids why didn’t you ever tell at least some of your story? So, was it you mom or dad who was Cherokee? Most of us have always figured it was you mom. 

Question 3. Why did you dislike most of your own kids? You showed them no love. They were likable people. We loved most of them. We didn’t particularly care for you eldest daughter (she was too much like you), but everybody else was great. The only one you seemed to care about was your eldest son. 

Question 4. With the way your life unfolded you had to have many stories and experiences and yet you never shared any. Were they all that bad? There had to be at least a couple of good ones. Even just a few might have given us more insight into what or who were the influences that made you you. We might have even had more compassion and love for you. 

Question 5. You and Grandpa had a successful strawberry farm and general store in Decatur, Arkansas. You had the respect and envy of neighbors and townsfolk. You had even brought the first telephone system to the town. Yet, in one fateful night you and all of your family packed up and left town moving to China Spring, Texas, abandoning your farm and store. What precipitated that sudden departure? What happened that was so bad that all of you had to leave? Even your kids would not say. 

Question 6. And finally, what was your reason for never entering Oklahoma Territory? It was only three miles away and you had relatives there. Yet after Oklahoma became a state you passed through it on your way to Idaho, and your kids said you visited several people there. You were in Decatur about thirty years and never entered Oklahoma Territory. That was a curious thing your kids sometimes brought up. Even they didn’t understand. 

Grandma, those are just a few of the questions I have for you. I would really like to know about first half of your very long 96 years. Please help me understand how you became you. 

Respectfully and with Love,

Your Great-Grandson 

Nez Nesmith 

September 2023

Blind Acrimonious Mary - Nez

 Blind Acrimonious Mary

By Nez Nesmith

Mary knows people by their voices and footsteps. She sees movement in tones of black and gray, if she sees anything at all. And sometimes when the light is especially bright, she sees white. She doesn’t like bright. That doctor shined that light in her eyes and made her mad. It hurt. She hasn’t always been this way. When she was younger she saw colors, all the colors, and the grass and trees and fields and cows, and everything else, but didn’t really notice them. But the colors gradually faded to gray, then darker, now almost black. Mary is blind. Cataracts. Nothing to be done about it. She hates the blindness. She wishes she could see. Anything. She can’t. Mary feels sorry for herself.   

Mary moves around the house using her cane. She really can’t go outside by herself anymore because the ground isn’t level, and the road has potholes. She will stumble and fall. She can handle the front porch and steps okay, but doesn’t, except for church on Sundays. There’s nowhere else for her to go.  

Mary is not nice. She is acrimonious. She complains. Blindness made her a helpless shut-in. She hates that. She gets her dress on straight. It has buttons in front. She can get her apron on, it has pockets for stuff, but she doesn’t cook anymore. Can’t handle the wood cook stove. She needs help with most things. Too many things. This house doesn’t work for a sightless person. Especially a sightless old woman in her late 80s. 

In her rocker near the front door Mary sits silently, slightly rocking and listening, always listening. She yells for someone to come help her. Other times the radio is blaring that awful stuff the kids call music. When the weather’s good her granddaughter will chase the kids outside and change to radio to ‘Queen for a Day’ or the ‘Arthur Godfrey Show’ or ‘Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour”. That’s better. She never smiles. Best is when granddaughter asks if she wants the Bible. Charleston Heston’s spoken word recordings of the Bible play on the phonograph. At times granddaughter will play church hymns on the phonograph for her. Dale Evans is her favorite. She likes Ethel Waters, Mahalia Jackson, Stuart Hamblen, and Tennessee Ernie Ford, too. 

Her caregiver granddaughter has kids, everybody In the house with her. Those two boys drive Mary crazy, always into something, making messes and fighting. They’re noisy. And they learned to avoid her cane swinging at them. She hates that they live with her, and they know it. They all know it. The girl isn’t much better. She argues and changes the radio to that awful Elvis Presley music. And, sings, too. Turn that awful stuff off and go away. 

Mary is half-Cherokee, born in Georgia, just after the War Between the States, raised in Arkansas, married and raised her kids there, then they migrated to Texas, to Idaho and finally, to Washington. She has seven younger siblings that she hasn’t seen or visited for at least 35 years. She used to write with some, but she can’t write or read anymore. Tried someone else writing down what she wanted, but no privacy. Hated it. Quit. No interest in Braile. When the phone was first installed Mary talked to one brother for ten minutes. Hung up and cried. Never used the phone again. Never cried again. 

Mary is angry. Always. Been that way since before she noticed her sight fading, about twenty years ago. She raised six kids and the granddaughter. This is the thanks she gets? Her kids say she was always angry and mean, too. Mary is acrimonious toward most, except at church. There for about an hour each week she’s civil. She considers herself to be religious.  

Mary doesn’t swear or cuss, but she might as well. The preacher used to visit frequently, at least monthly. The preacher quit visiting several years ago. Except for her eldest son her kids don’t come often either, not since her husband died. Her son comes by once a month or so.  Some others come by on holidays Thanksgiving or Christmas, and Mother’s Day and birthdays. Mary doesn’t reminisce about her life or her upbring, nor their upbringing. She complains. They provide monetary help and gifts they think she might like. She complains. They go home. 

The silence and noise continue. The Bible plays. Sing on Elvis.

Nez Nesmith

September 2023 

The Perfect Load - Nez

 The Perfect Load

By Nez Nesmith

He stood almost twenty feet in the air atop the load admiring his work when it occurred to him that now they had to tear it all apart. He was proud of himself. He could have stacked them higher, but the ground crew couldn’t throw them any higher. He stacked them like bricks, overlapping each and turning them at the corners so every single bale was squarely interlocked with another. This load was straight and rock-solid, no strapping needed for the drive to the barn. 

At the barn hayhooks will lift and swing a quartet of bales up into the hayloft where two guys will restack them, but not interlock. He didn’t want to work in the loft, it was too stuffy and hot up there. He would much rather work outside in the sunny breeze, setting the hooks. Besides he had already stacked them once, perfectly. That was enough. Stuffy and hot in that dust up there, no thank you. Let someone else do that. Staying with the truck and setting the hooks would be his reward for stacking the perfect load. 

Still, he was a little dejected that his perfection would disappear. He wondered if any of the other guys had stacked a truckload as perfectly. He thought not. They weren’t the perfectionists he was. Well, maybe not everything he did was perfect, but at least some things were. And this load was perfect. 

“Hey,” yelled the driver, “you can’t ride up there. You have to come down.” Smiling to himself, he knew that. He scrambled down to the ground and joined the others. “Let’s go,” he grinned. 

Nez Nesmith

September 2023