Mrs. Bracken - Kathy Link added 4/21/24

This link will bring up most updated version:  Mrs. Bracken working copy

Unfinished Draft - I'm trying to work on character, description, and writing a story that pairs and unlikely pair.   

Mrs. Bracken - FIRST DRAFT

Gray clouds covered the sun and a northerly wind sent leaves floating along cold drafts on their way down to blanket the ground.  A dog’s bark broke through the whoosh of the wind like a staccato beat of a drum.  A woman lumbered north teetering back and forth along the cobblestone street.  Her back bent as though she carried the weight of her past with her. The tails of her gray and black herringbone overcoat flapped behind with each breeze.  She carried a bulging black carpet bag, which hung from the crook of her left elbow.  It swung back and forth with each step, bouncing off her hip sporadically.  She carried a wooden cane in her right hand, her crooked fingers gripped the handle, moving the tip ahead to the next set of pavers with each step.  

Everyone in Taylorville knew Mrs. Bracken, or thought they did.  They knew where she lived, they knew who she was and could point her out of a crowd.  They knew she had been long widowed, had three grown children who never visited, and they knew she lived in the same house she grew up in, the house her father built before she was even born.  They knew her weekly pattern.  She grocery shopped every Monday, banked every Wednesday, tended her garden every morning at precisely 8:30, and paid the old man across her street to mow her lawn every Friday.  Townsfolk also kept their watches in sync as Mrs. Bracken began her afternoon walk sharply at 3:30 every afternoon, and returned home at 4:00 on the dot.  Mrs. Bracken rarely spoke, and that was mostly to the cashier at the IGA, the teller at Taylorville Land and Trust, and the old man who mowed her yard.  For the most part, the mysterious Mrs. Bracken kept to herself.

The children of Taylorsville made up all sorts of stories about her.  She was a witch that cast spells on the unsuspecting.  She used the herbs from her garden to mix up all kinds of potions to sell to all kinds of desperate people at night through her back kitchen door.  She hunted children and sold them to other witches in other towns.   She used her cane to whack kids who got in her way.  Her eyes could look deep in your soul and read your mind.  Of course none of this was true, and in fact, nothing could be further from the truth.  

Mrs. Bracken’s first name was Cindy, although no one called her that anymore.  Even though she was well into her eighties, her hair was void of gray hair, and under the hood of her coat, she was still blond as the sun.  Bright aqua blue eyes and pink cheeks were hidden under the cover of her hood as well.  Mrs. Bracken was indeed a contradiction of her reputation.  

Mrs. Bracken’s home was nothing spectacular, a two story brick square with a full front porch, like many in the area.  What made it stand out was the spectacular flower garden in front and the vegetable gardens in the back.  Wrought iron trellises covered with purple wisteria dotted the lawn, Arches covered winding footpaths shading them in fragerent honeysuckle vines, with beds of flowering annuals and perennials added more color throughout the garden. Climbing roses and mophead Hydrangeas broke up the darkness of the iron fence.while lavender, holyhocks, and fountain grasses softened the look on the ground.  Not a weed could be found.  But the iron fence in front kept visitors at bay.  Six feet tall with spikes, brick pillars on each side of the gate topped with gargoyles guarding the locked property.  No one had entered, save the weekly lawn mower, in years.  The back was just as impressive, herbs in one section, vegetables in the other, and in the very back corner stood a red barn storage shed, adorned with flower boxes and a small windows on each side of the door. For years, only Mrs. Bracken had been seen, silently pulling, cutting, watering, and caring for her meticulous and impressive garden

The fall weather this time of year showed signs of work needing to be done in both gardens.  The elderly Mrs. Bracken wondered how she could keep up with all the needs of her gardens, so she posted a help wanted notice at the IGA for someone to help her this year.  “Gardener needed, no experience necessary, able to lift, plant, and haul waste away. Contact Mrs. Bracken, you know where I live.”  And then she waddled back home and waited for someone to stop by apply.  

On the other side of town, a slight, pale, blond boy rolled out of bed and got ready for school, a place he felt unloved, unsafe, and a complete waste of his time as far as he was concerned.   His parents, ignoring the pain he experienced each day, compelled him to attend, thinking his teenage angst would pass and education eventually would save his future. He didn’t have a choice, so Nicholas threw on a pair of sweats, a hoodie and slipped into his Nike’s without socks, grabbed a strawberry pop tart and headed out the door. 

Winds of Change - Susan

 I reworked this story of Fila based on a Reedsy prompt which suggested beginning a story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin. That led to more images of wind. Fun exercise to rewrite to fit a prompt, instead of starting with the prompt.

Fila stood beside her stepfather’s Model A at the side of the hard-packed dirt road running from Dallas all the way to Fort Worth. The wind blowing in from West Texas stirred up fine dust and grit and warned of a coming storm. Looking up at an ominous sky, loose tendrils of hair escaped her bun, and she wished she had worn a hat. “Never mind,” she thought, “I won’t be here long.” She needed to get this over with.

In her hands Fila gripped a surveyor’s map with property specifications for the 26 acres spread out in front of her. Pushing her hair off her face, she gazed out at the property her husband was determined to buy. Fila had learned over the years that George’s ideas almost never panned out, and Fila was opposed to leaving McKinney and her mother’s family for the uncertainty of Dallas. However, George was convinced the construction in a city booming with oil and gas money would mean more work for him and more money to educate their four boys.

Although she remained unconvinced, Fila knew that George was one to dig in his heels when challenged, and her arguments only increased his determination to move the family yet again. To keep the peace and break his stony silence, she agreed to drive a borrowed car the 30 miles from Plano to look over the property. Fear of more debt kept her up at night, and here was George, intent on adding more debt to what they still owed her stepfather. They never seemed to be able to get ahead, always taking two steps back for every step forward. “When will it end?” she wondered.

Fila pushed aside doubt as took in what she could see of the 26 acres. Some of the land had been worked recently; the detritus of a past cotton crop swirled in the wind, little whirlwinds whipping across the ground. A small grove of pecan trees bending slightly in the west wind bordered a field to the east where a donkey stood motionless by a split rail fence, his companion bird dog asleep beside him in spite of the wind and the dust. Fila smiled at the sight and wondered if the dog and donkey came with the property.

Through the dust, she took in the boundaries of the fields and calculated that the spread could support a few head of livestock and a sizable vegetable garden. She imagined a summer trade where the boys could sell fresh vegetables and shelled pecans to the travelers who were sure to come when the proposed viaduct across the Trinity River was built.

With a keen sense of value and potential, Fila turned her eyes to the barn and the farmhouse, both large, well built, and, from where she stood, in good shape. The house faced north, a red brick, two-story, with a covered porch entrance and windows across the front. Given a choice, Fila would prefer a south-facing home with its back to the north winds that were bound to come in winter, but she was glad for the mature live oak tree that stood not far from a stone wall separating the yard from the field to the west of the house.

Sighing, she said to the god of winds, who may or may not have been listening, “This will do. This will have to do.”

Turning back to the car, and clutching the map to her chest, she leaned into the wind, glad to put this visit behind her. She took one last look, obscured now by rain drops as big as dimes. She knew she must resign herself to the move, must give in to the winds of change. Yet, in her heart she feared that this was an ill wind, solving nothing.

 

[Word count 632]

My Long Overdue Apology - Nez

 My Long Overdue Apology

By Nez Nesmith

I can’t remember for sure but when I was in third maybe fourth grade in Lyman Grade School, during recess one day Ray and Bud, both buddies of mine, were in some sort of game of “chase or tag”, I was never sure about that either. Anyway, Bud came flying by me and Ray was chasing him, so I just stuck my foot out and Ray tripped and flew into the front concrete steps of the school house. I immediately pull my foot back, realizing that I had made a terrible mistake. There was a crowd of kids in the area and no one realized that I had tripped Ray and caused his unfortunate sprawl, but of course I knew. Fortunately, he wasn’t too badly hurt, but his knee was torn and bleeding through his torn jeans and both his palms were scraped. I did not confess my offense to anyone, but I did go to his aid. Several of us helped Ray into the school where our teacher, Mrs. Nichol, cleaned and dressed the wound. Over the many years since that moment, I’ve thought about that incident many, many times. 

Several years ago, I realized that I hadn’t seen Ray for at least fifty years and I had still not apologized to him. He had never come to any of the school reunions that I attended. I had been to only a few myself, being that I was in Texas most of that time. So, it wasn’t particularly unusual for us not to have run into one other. 

Years of guilt finally got to me, so I made some inquiries as to where Ray might be. I knew he was alive because his name was not in the list of deceased schoolmates. I found that he lives just three miles outside of Lyman. He doesn’t do cell phones, email or computers, so I left word on the answering machine and he called me the next day. I told him I was coming out there in about a week to visit my aunt in Lynnwood and it would be nice to see him again, so he suggested that we meet for lunch. We quickly settled on a time and place. 

I arrived at our appointed place and immediately recognized Ray, though he was older and a little heavier, but still looked like himself, even fifty-some years later. He still has a full head of mostly dark hair. I was a little jealous. I spoke first and he said he would not have recognized me.

We ordered deli sandwiches, sat and talked. We had a really nice conversation catching up on our lives, military service, work, and families. Finally, I got around to his tumble on the school steps when we were in Mrs. Nichol’s class. He didn’t remember the tumble, or the bleeding knee, or scrapped palms, or the torn jeans. He said those all sound like things that always happened to him in those days. His Mom was always mad at him for tearing his jeans and getting minor cuts, scrapes and bruises. 

I confessed, “well, you took that tumble because of me. You were running by me and I tripped you. It’s been a really long time coming but I sincerely apologize.” 

He said, “thank you, but I honestly don’t remember that happening at all.” A moment later he laughed, “you mean to tell me that’s bugged you all these years?” 

Humbled, I said, “it has whenever it comes to mind.” 

He chuckled and magnanimously said, “well, I bet you’ve suffered more than I did, so let’s just put it behind us and forget about it.” And smiled, “okay?”

We later parted agreeing to stay in touch, but we won’t. Neither of us thought enough about the other to reach out in over fifty years. So, not likely. 

On occasion I still think about that moment of the “tripping” and how vividly it keeps coming back to me from so long ago. Even though it wasn’t a major incident to him, the fact that I didn’t confess and apologize at the time still “bugs” me. But I don’t know what it means. So, I ponder on it for a moment or two and then I take Ray’s advice and put it behind me. Again. 

Nez Nesmith

February 2023 

1949 Skagit River Flood - Nez

 1949 Skagit River Flood

I Should Have Said No - Marc

 I SHOULD HAVE SAID NO

I have always been a sucker for a cute face, and she was damned cute.

Dark curly shoulder length hair, big brown eyes that reminded me of a doe, with a smile that screamed innocence and cunning simultaneously, with perfect pale skin to boot.

The band was in flux. We had been a solid hard rock foursome for the previous two years. Johnny D. was the best lead guitarist at 16 that I had ever heard. He could match Alvin Lee note for note playing I’m Going Home from the Woodstock Album. He could equal any performance of Eric Clapton, hence we played a lot of Cream in those days. Johhny was great but terribly shy, so while he played he would always keep his head down. The few times he did look up at an audience, his face would blossom into splotches of deep red.  Joey Statz was our lead singer, and the girls loved him with his shoulder length blond hair and crazy gyrations while he performed, like an early David Lee Roth. He was a few years older than us, which enabled him to get the band whatever it needed or wanted. Tommy was on bass, he was a fat Italian kid with dark hair which he tried to comb like Elvis. Every time there were problems with Tommy and a girl he would refuse to practice and lock himself in the bathroom, until one of us either talked him down or forced the lock and calmed him down with pharmaceuticals. He was a friend and a good bass player, so we tolerated his tantrums. I played drums, often finding it hard to believe that I might have been the most normal of the group. We played hard rock, mostly at frat parties and battle of the bands. 

The problem was that Joey was unreliable. He might show up to practice, and if he did, he was often too high to take it seriously. I’m not going to say that we didn’t all get high, but he was the only one that affected the work of the band. The first time he didn’t show up for a gig, Tommy, who had a good but subdued voice covered for him, but something was lost and we all knew it. After the second no show, Joey was dumped, which was sad to me because a good front man is hard to find. 

Soon afterwards, Johhny suffered a nasty broken wrist on his lead hand, and suddenly we were looking for a front man and a lead guitarist. 

We found am adequate lead guitarist in Carmine, a spoiled only child from a traditional Italian family. He had pale blue eyes and the girls loved him also, but his talent level was nowhere near Johnny’s. Although he rarely showed it, I saw a hidden mean side when it came to women in him, and I worried about the girls who were infatuated with his smile and beautiful eyes. For a lead singer, we recruited Cathy, I girl that I knew. Cathy had long dark curly hair to the center of her back, with a smile she rarely shared. She had ongoing problems with her mom, and the two of them spent most of their time screaming at each other. She swore that when she reached 18, she was leaving home. Cathy had a deep raspy voice, like Janis Joplin but under control. I nicknamed her Songbird. I really liked her as friend, but her choices in guys were always disastrous. 

Finally, to help cover for Carmine’s inadequacies on guitar, we recruited my best friend, Louie the Turtle, who looked more like a turtle than anyone we had ever met.

We were no longer a rock band, and started playing songs like Venus, or Something by the Beatles, which were boring as hell for me as a drummer. We practiced in an empty garage, and painted the walls dark blue with stars on them, and the floor white and red longitudinal lines. Tacky, I know, but at 17 it seemed cool. 

None of us were very happy with the way the band was headed, when Cathy said perhaps, we should consider adding a keyboard player to modify our sound. I was already mentally on my way out of this mess, and I should have said no but the rest of the band was willing to give it a try. If I had nixed it then and there, I would have had enough support to prevent it, but I went along with it. Cathy said she went to school with a girl who was a keyboardist and could she invite her to a tryout? I really should have shouted NO, knowing that Carmine would give both girls crap. But I was fed up and tired and thought;

“What the hell this can’t get any worse can it?”

Next practice, she showed up, and I was smitten. Her name was Mary Ann, and she was an average keyboard player, but when she flashed those eyes and smile, the guys would forgive her playing. When you are 17, you often make do not make decisions with the head on your shoulders. 

She went out with The Turtle for a time when I was away that summer, but I think we both know it was inevitable that we would end up the two of us. When it did come to pass, the Turtle wouldn’t speak to me, and the band broke up. A warm early autumn night found us making out under a tree, and my last chance to say no had disappeared. 

I taught her what I knew through our high school years, and we both ended up in college together. If you have ever been madly, hopelessly, completely in love with someone, you will understand how vulnerable you are. There is no logic to it, it is an out of control roller coaster, and you never know where the ride will end. But you don’t care, because you can’t, you won’t, get off the ride. 

By third year of college, we knew it was over, but neither of us would let go. If only one of us had been honest with the other, perhaps more pain could have been avoided, but neither of us had the courage. 

Fast forward to a wedding, and then a painful divorce less than two years later. In hindsight, I wonder what roads I might have taken if I had just said no that faithful day.

Trigger - Kathy

Just a silly 10 minute write... 

Have you ever had a word that stopped you in your tracks, a word you’ve spoken a gazillion times, but just now stopped to really think about it?  That happened to me today with the word trigger.  

Trigger, what an interesting word.  It’s sharp to the ears and active to pronounce, moving the tongue from the front to the middle and then to the back in two short syllables.  So much is going on, it’s quite the oral workout.  Try saying it slowly and pay attention to the movement. “TRRIII-GGERRR”  So satisfying.  It’s possible to stretch it out to three syllables, making the “I” its own syllable.  Try that… “TRRR-III-GGERRR”.  Notice your lips slinking to a camera ready smile before returning them to a purse, like a mom warning her child.  If taking control away from the “R” is the goal, Trigger can even be stretched to four syllables.  Try that one, paying attention to the acrobatics happening in your mouth.  TRRR-III-GG-EERRR  but that causes the “e” to sound like a “u”, don’t ask me why, but it does. And it’s not really syllables at this point, just an oral workout.   Now five syllables is how my six year old granddaughter read this word in her take home reader called Timmy the Triggered Tiger. TT-RRR-III-GGG-EEERRR and that completely loses all meaning of the word at all.  Reduced to soundbytes - phonemes.  So, watch your tongue and pay attention to the aerobics happening when you pronounce your favorite words. 

The Side of the Road - Susan

This started as a 10-minute exercise. I kept expanding it, trying to give a better sense of setting -- both time and place. We meet Fila again, now as a young woman, married with four sons.

Fila stood in the warmth of an early November afternoon beside the dusty, hard-packed dirt road running from Dallas all the way to Fort Worth. In her hands she held a surveyor’s map and property specifications for the 26 acres spread out in front of her. Shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed out at the property George was determined to buy. Fila had learned over the years that George’s ideas almost never panned out, and Fila was opposed to leaving McKinney and her mother’s family for the uncertainty of Dallas. However, George was convinced the construction in a city booming with oil and gas money would mean more work for him and more money to educate their four boys.

Although she remained unconvinced, Fila knew that George was one to dig in his heels when challenged, and her arguments only increased his determination to move the family yet again. To keep the peace and break his stony silence, she agreed to drive a borrowed car the 30 miles from Plano to look over the property, knowing full well her opinion would carry little weight.

Even as doubt crowded out optimism for this latest scheme, Fila knew that George needed to leave the blacksmith business where he was underpaid and overworked. With the automobile replacing horse and wagon, blacksmithing was becoming obsolete, and George’s future in Plano was limited. However, Fila carried a nagging knot in her stomach, born of fear for adding more debt to what they still owed her stepfather. They never seemed to be able to get ahead, always taking two steps back for every step forward. “When will it end?” she wondered.

Fila pushed aside doubt as she took in what she could see of the 26 acres. Some of the land had been worked recently, the detritus of a past cotton crop still littered the ground. A small grove of pecan trees bordered a field to the east where a donkey stood motionless by a split rail fence, his companion bird dog asleep beside him. Fila smiled at the sight and wondered if the dog and donkey came with the property.

Consulting the map, she took in the boundaries of the fields and calculated that the spread could support a few head of livestock and a sizable vegetable garden. She imagined a summer trade where the boys could sell fresh vegetables and shelled pecans to the travelers who were sure to come when the proposed viaduct across the Trinity River was built.

Fila was nothing if not practical. With a keen sense of value and potential, she turned her eyes to the barn and the farmhouse, both large, well built, and, from where she stood, in good shape. The house faced north, a red brick, two-story, with a covered porch entrance and windows across the front. A mature live oak tree stood not far from a stone wall that separated the yard from the field to the west of the house.

It was a long way from Plano and the life she and her family had built there, surrounded by her uncle's wealth and her stepfather’s family. But fate, not fortune, had intervened yet again. Resigned, she sighed and said to the gods who may or may not have been listening, “This will do. This will have to do.”

On Wings of Memory - Susan

 Note: This is a revised version of my story where Fila's idea of sin didn't seem so sinful. I have tried to strengthen her definition of sin so that it's clearer to the reader. 

“Lord, my knees hurt,” Fila moans as she bends to pick up the hoe off the hard-packed soil, dried by a relentless Texas sun. Leaning heavily on the hoe, she turns to examine the neat rows of vegetables, noting the ragged progress of cucumbers, squash, and beans that manage to grow in spite of the heat. Her gaze lingers on the five-gallon water bucket waiting under the lone live oak tree in the yard. She knows the tomatoes need weeding and watering, but that will take more strength than she can muster in the late afternoon sun. 

Supported by the hoe, she walks slowly on bowed legs to the porch at the side of the century-old farmhouse. “I’ll just set a spell,” she says to herself, feeling guilty about leaving the row of tomato plants un-hoed, but not guilty enough to keep going. She knows her arthritic knees will make her pay later. “Well,” she says silently, “we all pay for our sins, don’t we?” 

Standing the hoe by the dusty porch steps, she holds onto the handrail and pulls herself up the steps to the rocking chair placed nearby. A glass of tea, wet with moisture, sits on the small wicker table beside the chair. 

She lowers herself carefully into the rocker, settling her body to ease the pain in her back, a constant reminder of decades spent bending over wash tubs, weeding gardens, ironing shirts, and bathing displaced grandchildren in the old cast iron tub. She sighs as a nagging pain creeps down her left leg, “Yes, indeed, we pay for our sins.”

She picks up the glass of tea, wipes the moisture on the hem of her sun-bleached housedress, and takes a long, thirsty drink. Setting the glass on the table, she says aloud, “God knows I’m familiar with sin. Could write a book about it.” 

Her words come to rest in the memory of a 17-year-old Fila and the courtship of an old man, bent on taking her for his wife. She wonders, “Does the Lord forgive you the sin of marrying the wrong man? Of living every day as though he matters to you, when you hate even the thought of his touch, of his rough hands on your body?”

She reaches for the glass of tea again, but stops to ask herself, “Who’s the sinner anyway? The deceiver who makes your mama think he has cash in the bank, who pretends to be more than he is and to have more than he has? Or is it the girl who marries him, all the while knowing she’s marrying a man she doesn’t love and wishing he was someone else, someone she still writes to and pines for? Isn’t that the very definition of infidelity?” 

As she lifts the glass to sip the now lukewarm tea, Fila rocks gently, rhythmically, letting the motion loosen a memory of her youthful self and the dreamy romance of a long-ago poem:

Many a farewell word

And sweet goodnight

On the doorstep

Lingers in my heart.

Her thoughts drift to the young Alabama man she left behind, with eyes the color of midnight; a man of gentle speech who made her ache with sweet tenderness. But that was before the possible became impossible, before a good father ended his dispirited time on earth, leaving his widow and his daughter to pick up the pieces of a life crushed by debts and fears.

Fila has learned to live with disappointment and disillusion. She avoids too much reflection or memories of lost love. But today she is bone weary and mindful of her age and the infirmities that slow her body and mind. 

She sets down the glass, now empty, and closes her eyes as she rocks. Aware only of the setting sun and the cicadas scratching the still air, she whispers a poem for a lost love:

I dream of my darling tonight

My darling so tender and true;

Oh, had I but wings for the flight

Those wings, love, would bear me to you.

The tears come, not for the first time, but with a deeper regret for the road not taken when the one chance to fly came along. “I’d have needed more than wings to shift me from this place,” she sighs.

Being careful to steady herself on unpredictable knees, she pushes up from the chair, picks up the empty glass, and turns to take one last look at the tomatoes reminding her of their need for tending. Assuring them that she will be back tomorrow (God willing), Fila says goodnight, leaving thoughts of the past to sleep in the silent air of a windless Texas night.

Patty and Everyll -Nez

Patty and Everyll

https://docs.google.com/file/d/1z6-2PPBcChrA5lRsfHb_k2SF_ZIx8LHH/edit?usp=docslist_api&filetype=msword

Holding Hands - Nez

Stunning in her white wedding dress and handsome in his new suit and tie, Florence Mae Van Sickle and Clark Alexander Nesmith were married on the 3rd of May 1916, in her widowed mother’s home in Shields, North Dakota. Clark and Mae were crazy about each other and already had plans for their lifetime together. He was 22, she was all of 17. 

They drove fifteen miles in his horse and buggy to catch the train for their honeymoon in Bismarck. He had promised her a house but their first home was a two-room sod hut on a small farm on the North Dakota prairie. Seventeen months later their first child was born, so they moved to South Dakota, where he worked for the railroad. In February 1920, they used his railroad pass to take the train to Bellingham, Washington. He resigned from the railroad, and Clark and Mae Nesmith made northwest Washington their forever home. 

Clark delivered milk from farms to the dairy processing plant and built houses on the side and Mae popped out kids from 1920 to 1928. He finished the first house in Bellingham and  presented it to Mae and they moved in, and then he built another, and another. Evey time he completed a house they moved into it and sold the last one. Their growing family moved four times in seven years, and each time they celebrated by having another kid. Each kid was born at a different address. By the time Mae was thirty, she had given birth seven times in eleven years, and was raising six kids. They were on plan and happy.

With six young kids when the Depression hit, Clark joined the Carpenter’s Union and rarely lacked for work which was mostly in Seattle, so he moved the family there. He became a “master finish carpenter” who was known to hum, whistle or quietly sing to himself as he worked, normally with a home-made toothpick in his mouth. Grampa told us grandkids the best carpenters “Always Measure Twice, Cut Once,” and we should, too. That was his motto for life and work. Quality craftsmanship, like his, was always in demand. 

Gramma loved telling the story that during  construction of the old Federal Court building in Seattle, four sets of ten foot tall teakwood doors were ordered for the entrance, eight doors in all, four outside and four inside. Teakwood is very heavy and each door weighed more than a ton. It was requested that Grampa hang them. He did such a masterful job they claimed a three-year old child could open and close each of those huge teakwood doors with ease and without risk, yet they would stop a truck. He was highly praised during in the dedication. Gramma was so proud. (The building has now been repurposed but those doors are still there, almost eighty years later. A plaque still bears his name.)

After WWII, they stayed in Seattle several years, but now in his fifties Grampa suffered three heart attacks, all on the job. After his first one, the most major one, he recuperated in the hospital for three months and another month at home before he was allowed to return to work. There was no heart surgery. Gramma never left his bedside but fretted with worry over him and their lack of adequate income. After his recovery from his third attack, at the age of fifty-nine, doctors urged him to take a medical retirement, but he figured they wouldn’t have enough income so he refused and returned to work. 

Between 1941 to 1962 Gramma and Grampa became proud grandparents twenty times (yes, twenty, no twins). Whenever us grandkids stayed over with them Grampa always got us up each morning to line up and march behind him, to his rendition of “Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In”, to the kitchen where he made the best, thinnest “flapjacks” ever. With syrup or fruit jam they were so delicious we would eat several. Gramma would take us to the zoo “to see our other relatives”, or to the lake to splash and have picnics or ferryboat rides. Wherever we went she had us hold hands. And we were all very aware that wherever Gramma and Grampa went they always held hands. That was their thing.

My grandparents seemed to always be on the same page. They talked about everything and worked through their differences before bed. They told us to, “never go to bed mad at one another. It makes tomorrow a better day.” And they laughed and sang a lot (he mostly hummed, …the toothpick). They had their faith, their respect and deep devotion for each other.

Grampa finally retired at sixty-five and they moved back to Skagit County. He never had another heart attack. They leaned on each other and he built her another house. And she wanted to travel so he quit taking side jobs. 

Nobody knows why but Grampa liked Chrysler cars but at sixty-eight he bought a new silver Chrysler Imperial to pull their new silver Airstream trailer. They traveled America in that Imperial and Airstream and saw most of the country, except for Alaska and Hawaii. They would never fly yet they marveled at new technology and were amazed that they saw a man on the moon, had color tv, and drove an Imperial and to think that their first home together was a sod hut and travel was by horse and buggy; all this in their lifetime. A great romance of sixty-one anniversaries. My Gramma and Grampa. He was 22, she was all of 17.

p.s. - After Gramma passed away in 1978, Grampa was lost, in a daze. He mourned her for a year then he simply laid down and joined her. 

Nez Nesmith – January 2024