Fay Risner's Blog, page 3

Jacob’s Spirit -Installment Three

Jacob’s Spirit – Installment Two

Ebook can be found on Smashwords.com and in kindle and nook. The paperback book is on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Jacob’s Spirit

The first installment of a novella that was inspired by my living most of what happened in this story while raising sheep on my parents’ acreage.

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Jacob’s Spirit

Novella

Fay Risner

Cover Art

Picture of Duane Risner Circa 1971

All Rights Reserved by

Author Fay Risner 2017

Published by Fay Risner at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Fay Risner

Revised 9/7/2020

 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locals are entirely coincidental. Excerpts from this book cannot be used without written permission from the author.

Booksbyfay Publisher

Author, Editor, Publisher

Fay Risner

fayrisner@netins.net

This book was written for my son, Duane Risner, because the story was one he shared with me the day an elderly visitor stopped by to reminisce with him. The cover picture taken of him when he was 10 years old is a double exposure taken back in the day forty-odd years ago when cameras used film. I had forgotten to roll the film to the next number.

Dear Readers,

This story is part fiction and part nonfiction and here is why. Years ago, we lived on a farm that was homesteaded in the 1800s. In the 1970s, an elderly woman and her daughter stopped by one day to reminisce and look around at the elderly woman’s childhood home.

Our son, Duane, gave her the tour, and she shared her memories. She pointed out where farm buildings used to be and groves of walnut and apple trees. As her memories flooded back, she pointed to the far side of the pasture toward a row of trees. She told Duane and her daughter about a young brother that was buried there. He fell off the steep barn roof and broke his leg. One end of the bone came out through the skin. In those days, country doctors were a scarcity. Since there wasn’t one close by, the family tended the child and hoped for the best. He died of gangrene.

I’m not sure why he was buried on the property, but there might not have been a public cemetery close. Or, maybe the family intended to have their own family cemetery when the first death occurred. The first owners would never have dreamed that a hundred years later the farm would be sold several times to other people that weren’t related.

We drive by other family country cemeteries like that in our area. The small burial places are now known as pioneer cemeteries.

The boy’s marker had been a wooden one. After it rotted away and the property changed hands, the boy buried under the trees was forgotten. Today I doubt there is anyone left in this area that knows the story. Birth certificates were required or death certificates in the 1800s so nothing was documented about a young boy that died from gangrene.

Since the elderly woman wasn’t sure of the grave’s exact spot under one of a line of trees, I can’t pinpoint where the body was buried. I don’t even know the given name of the little boy so I made up the exact location and name.

As for the rest of the story, my husband and I had a large flock of sheep while we lived at that farm which was on a busy highway. One winter, I really did hear strange banging noises at night that seemed to come from the barn. I did grow nervous about going to check the sheep by myself since we discovered a tramp had slept in the hayloft and dropped his lighter.

So there is much of me in the character Ellen Carter except I didn’t get a chance to meet Jacob’s spirit as Ellen did. My husband, Harold, is the one who solved the mystery about the banging. You will discover the answer at the end of the story.

I do want to thank my son, Duane, for letting me use this childhood picture of him when he was around ten years old. Back in the day when we used film, I forgot to wind the camera to the next number before I took another picture of him. That made the picture double exposed. When I ran across the picture, it made me think of Jacob’s spirit standing by the barn. I decided it would make a good book cover.

In 2003, I entered a short story version of Jacob’s Spirit in the Arkansas Writer’s Conference in the category Grif Stockley Mystery. I was awarded third place.

By writing this story in book form, here is my attempt to keep a little boy’s memory alive that I call Jacob.

Enjoy,

Fay Risner

The Barn

In the barn, the ghost, the girl

When I came home from school

She sat upon the hayloft stairs

In a dress of layered tulle

Half-hidden from the shadows

Her body turned away

Her little gloves, pale and clenched

Over her little face

It was as if she took my hand

It was as if she knew

The earth held only part of her

And I should know it too

I’d seen the man out in the field

Immersed in dancing flames

A barn had once burned down out there

Long before we came

The land stretched wide beyond the house

Who knows what lay beneath

What other men were lying there

And would show themselves to me

It was as if he took my hand

It was as if he knew

The earth held only part of him

And I should know it too

It was as if they caught my ear

It was as if their breath

Would say, would sing

The dance of life continues after death

Chapter 1

January 21, 1977, a day in the life of Ellen Carter that she would always remember. That date helped her mark the beginning of her favorite story. A tale that she passed down through the years to her family.

Of course, she knew none of them believed what she told them had really happened. They were certain the story wasn’t anything other than a tall tale spun out of her imagination.

Who knows? Perhaps, as the story was retold by family members from one generation to the next, there might have been an unintentional addition made here and there to the facts that helped to liven up the story. If Ellen’s relatives did that, they were actually the ones that made her story the tall tale.

That particular Saturday evening in January was one of those bitterly cold winter nights preceded by an accumulation of fourteen inches of snow in the two days before.

After plowing the state highway for two days for the Department of Transportation, Ellen’s husband, Jack, had spent all day Saturday cleaning paths around their house and the driveway so they could get out if they wanted to go somewhere. After supper, he stretched out in his recliner to watch television or fall asleep. Whichever came first.

Ellen cleaned up the kitchen before she came to the living room and sat down in her rocker. A cold draft on her back caused her to shiver. It radiated off the window behind her that faced the north. She got up, pulled her rocker away from the window, and went back to reading a book.

She tilted her ear toward the window as she stopped reading and rocking simultaneously. Concentrating on what was going on outside, she laid the book, Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie, in her lap. She shoved her long brown hair away from her face and listened intently.

Bang, bang, bang!

“Jack, what’s that noise?”

“What noise are you talking about?” Jack mumbled, keeping his eyes and ears glued to the television.

Ellen slowly shook her head. That television was the worst invention in this modern age as far as she was concerned.

The program Perry Mason was on. Jack never missed that show if he could keep both eyes open. She frowned at her husband. He wasn’t paying any attention to what was worrying her.

He was stretched out with his legs crossed at the ankles. The lanky, dark-haired fellow’s only movement was an occasional downward, nervous wiggle of his big toe stuck out of a hole in the toe of his Rockford sock.

“Sh! Jack, will you listen? That noise!” Ellen hissed. She wrapped her hands around the rocker arms, braced herself and stood up. “Something is banging around outside. Hear it?”

She walked behind the rocker to the window. Cupping her hands around her slim face to shut out the ceiling light’s glare, Ellen leaned against the cold pane and tried not to breathe. If she fogged up the glass with her warm breath, she’d never see anything.

She looked beneath the row of sparkling icicles on the house eave at the dense darkness. With her eyes squinted, she strained to see beyond the barnyard to the barn.

“What do you see?” Jack tried to sound interested as he divided his concentration between Perry Mason and her.

She knew his curiosity about what she heard wasn’t that great. He might miss something that was important to Perry’s case. “Nothing at all. It’s pitch black and quiet now.”

Ellen couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She inhaled deeply and let out a puff. That warm air fogged up the glass. With a shrugged, she gave up and backed away from the drafty window. With a loud sigh, she picked her book up from the rocker seat and settled down.

A commercial was on so that got Jack’s attention. He twisted his head toward the window and listened intently a moment. “The wind is really strong tonight. I guess it’s blowing in another snowstorm. Probably tore a barn board loose and causing it to flap in the breeze. Or, one of us forgot to hook a barn door at chore time.” Jack gave Ellen an accusatory look over the top of his dark-framed glasses. “I’ll look around while I’m checking the sheep for new lambs. The ewes will start popping at any time. I suppose it’s my turn to go to the barn, isn’t it?”

“You know very well it’s your turn.” Ellen chose to ignore the twinkle in Jack’s eyes as she looked at the wall clock. Almost ten o’clock. Any time now one of them usually went to the barn to check the sheep.

She wouldn’t even dignify Jack’s accusing her with an answer that the banging might be her fault. She was very careful about shutting and locking the barn doors, and he knew it.

Since Jack didn’t get a rise out of Ellen from his suggestion that she left a door open, he teased, “I’m thinking if it is going to snow soon I might ought to stay near the phone. If my boss at the DOT shop calls for me to come to work to plow snow, I can get going faster.”

Ellen knew what her husband was up to with that staying near the phone ploy. “I just looked outside, and I didn’t see snow falling yet. The snowstorm we had yesterday and the day before is long gone. According to the weatherman on channel two, there isn’t another storm due this week. If it makes you feel any easier about going to the barn, I’ll listen for the phone to ring. I’ll come get you right away if you need to go to work.”

“Guess you settled that problem.” Jack went to the coat pegs in the kitchen and bundled up in his winter garb. He grabbed the flashlight on the shelf above the pegs. When he opened the door, he braced himself for the blast of cold air that assailed him. “Here I go. Watch for my signal if I need your help.”

Ellen rushed back to the window and cupped her hands around her eyes. With her nose pressed against the glass, she listened to the wind howl. Inhaling deeply, she held her breath again to keep from fogging up the pane while she waited for the signal from Jack. He always flicked the light switch twice if he needed help to pen up a ewe with newborn lambs.

Chapter 2

Ellen thought about Jack acting like he didn’t want to take his turn going to the barn. She knew he was teasing, but it sure didn’t hurt him to take turns with her.

After all, when he was called to work during lambing season to plow roads at night, like the last two nights, she was stuck with taking care of the sheep by herself. She could have flipped the light switch several times, and it wouldn’t have done her any good. Jack wasn’t home to come help her.

During inclement weather, Ellen was stuck with taking care of the sheep and other chores while Jack was gone. It was a well-known fact that lambs usually were born in a blizzard. She’d read going into labor during storms, whether it be humans or animals, had something to do with the barometric pressure dropping.

In a few minutes, the barn lights went off. Jack was outside, projecting his flashlight beam over the front of the barn. The golden circle of light headed north as Jack walked around the side and headed toward the back of the barn.

Soon he came around the opposite side of the barn and climbed over the fence. As he walked across the back yard, the kitchen window’s light cut him a path to the house.

Lacy snowflakes floated through the flashlight’s yellow light, looking like those stirred up in a Christmas snow globe. Ellen hoped the ewes waited a few days to start dropping their lambs so both Jack and she would be home to take care of them.

Thinking about snowy winter nights made Ellen wonder if Agatha Christie ever started any of her mystery books with – It was a densely dark, freezing cold and stormy night.

The minute Jack came through the door, she barraged him with questions. “That was quick. It’s snowing, huh? Don’t worry. You didn’t get a call to go to work yet.

You didn’t signal for me to come. Weren’t there any new lambs? What were the banging noises? I haven’t heard it since you went outside.”

She took the flashlight from him and placed it on the shelf while he took his wool parka off and shook the melting snowflakes into the waste can.

Jack slipped free of his coveralls and hung them on the empty coat peg before he spoke. “How about a cup of coffee? I sure could use one to warm me up.”

“Sit down at the table, and I’ll get us both one.” Ellen poured water in the compartment on the Mr. Coffee maker and flicked the switch.

While he watched his wife scurry around the kitchen, Jack sat at the table and rubbed his hands together to warm them up. “I’ll answer your forty questions if I can remember them all. No, there weren’t any new lambs. For that I’m glad. This would be a hard night to fool with warming them up and not freeze ourselves. I didn’t see any of the ewes hanging off in the corners by themselves. That’s a good sign. I think the sheep will be all right until we check in the morning at chore time.

Yip, it has started to snow, but just lightly. The channel two weatherman just might have been wrong with his forecast about no snow, but what else is new. Hopefully, we’re just going to get a dusting that blows across the blacktops, so I wouldn’t get called to work for that. The wind is cold and strong, blowing the storm through fast looks like.”

“I told you the weatherman said the snowstorm was over for a week at least,” Ellen said.

“I hope he knows what he’s talking about and all we get is those few flakes. Let’s see. Where was I? No, I didn’t find anything that would cause the banging noises. I checked all the way around the barn which wasn’t easy. Behind the barn, the drifts are knee and thigh-high. No loose boards that I noticed anywhere. Since the noises stopped when I got to the barn, it was impossible to tell where the banging came from.”

Ellen placed two cups of steaming coffee on the table. “But you heard it when I did, didn’t you?” Ellen didn’t want him to say later that she had been hearing things.

Jack nodded as he blew into his cup and then took a sip. “Yip, in here with you, I heard the banging, and right after I went out of the house, I heard the noise again.”

In less than five minutes after they became relaxed in the living room to watch the news and weather, the rhythmic noises, like something banging around, started again. The banging continued after they went to bed and most of the night.

Ellen couldn’t sleep for listening to the disturbing racket. She didn’t know how Jack managed to sleep. Then again, maybe it was because he snored so loud, he couldn’t have heard any other racket over his own.

Finally, Ellen slipped out from under the quilts and sat up. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when her toes touched the cold floor, but she was determined to take another peek around outside.

She tiptoed to the window and scanned the back yard. Everything seemed to be all right between the house and the barn. Jack was right about them just getting a dusting of snow. It had stopped snowing. By mid-morning, the sun’s heat would have the white coating melted away.

Standing that close to the window, she shivered from the cold radiating off the glass. Her nightgown wasn’t thick enough cotton to withstand the draft. She crawled back into her warm bed.

More than likely whatever was making the noises would still be there in the morning. No sense losing sleep over it, she told herself. She grinned. That thought sounded like something Jack would say to her if he knew she was up. She shouldn’t be up that late at night, wandering around the house barefoot on the cold floor. Jack would tell that, too.

Ellen slipped back under the covers and noted that Jack was still sound asleep. Nope, he certainly wasn’t worried about the noises or anything else in the middle of the night. He was dead to the world as they say.

Chapter 3

One night a week later, Ellen laid her half-finished book on the living room lamp table and glanced at the wall clock. Ten o’clock. Her first check for lambs since chore time. She was home alone. Jack had been called out to watch the roads because of an impending snowstorm.

After she’d listened to the wind howl around the house for the last two hours, she dreaded looking out the window. But she grew curious about what she was going to face when she went outside. The wind had just about gotten loud enough to drown out the banging noises she’d been hearing for days.

Ellen roe from her rocker and peeked out the north window. Since she’d left the barn at chore time, what she’d been hearing was a blinding blizzard. It had settled in, slapping snow between the house and the barn. She stared into the snowy darkness. Behind the virtual swirling white wall obliterating the barnyard was the outline of a large dark structure she knew to be the barn.

Oh, for Pete sake! Why did I let Jack turn the buck in with the sheep so early last summer during that cool spell in August? At the time, he said the sheep would only breed on cool nights. I might have known he would wind up working at night during lambing season. That means I get stuck with all the sheep checks during snowstorms.

All I had to do was be smart enough to count ahead one hundred and fifty days to find out what time of year the sheep would lamb. I sure know now without counting since it’s midwinter. I’ll be prepared next summer when Jack wants to turn the buck in with the ewes in August. I’ll tell him to wait a month or two until the nights are really cool to breed the ewes.

Remembering back to last spring, buying sheep was Jack’s idea. She usually realized too late that he could be quite the salesman when he wanted to be. This time his bright idea came after trying to figure out another way to make an income on the farm.

“Small animals were easier to handle than cattle,” he had told her. “The barn is just the right size to keep sheep in. What do you think?”

“Go for it.” Ellen mistakenly consented without first checking into the details of sheep raising. She just couldn’t imagine how much work sheep would be.

At the time, Ellen thought she’d like to watch lambs romp after each other in the barnyard. In the spring when she traveled by farms with sheep, she’d always loved watching lambs frolic after each other.

Jack didn’t waste any time. At the next sale barn livestock auction, he bought fifty Suffolk ewes and a buck. As long as the ewes were on grass in the summer having them wasn’t a big deal. They weren’t part of the chores.

When fall arrived, Jack fed the ewes shelled corn in outside bunks, so they still weren’t part of Ellen’s chores.

She kept her hens and broilers fed and watered and remembered to gather the eggs each afternoon. Another chore to her was their large garden she kept hoed. In season, she gathered the vegetables and freeze or canned them for winter use. Besides her household duties, those chores kept her busy enough.

When lambing time was close, Jack began his campaign to get Ellen to help him take care of the sheep. He began by telling her the research he’d done on ewes. From what he’d read about caring for ewes and lambs at lambing time, it was clear to him the sheep needed a woman’s touch. Precisely, he meant Ellen’s special patient care and lots of attention.

She fell for it, looking forward to the thrill of finding newborn lambs; a single, twins, or triplets wobbling along beside their mothers. Penning up the lambs with the mothers and watching to make sure the lambs thrived before she turned them loose sounded like fun.

If the fact was in the books Jack read, he failed to mention the percentage of lambs she’d have to bottle feed four times a day. Some ewes had a bad bag so the lambs couldn’t nurse, or a ewe wouldn’t claim her lambs.

Jack sure didn’t bring up the fact that there was a percentage of ewes having multiple births that would have to have the lambs pulled in order to save them. Later when the first difficult delivery happened, he told her the job was hers since her hands were smaller than his. He reasoned it was easier for her to go in after the lambs.

Now that Ellen was ready to leave the house, she thought back about the exact words Jack used to con her into taking care of the sheep. At no time did he mentioned freezing cold weather and winter blizzards when she’d be doing lamb checks.

At that moment as she listened to the storm, Ellen dreaded going outside, but she didn’t have a choice. This time of year she wore a heavy flannel shirt, long johns, and jeans. Now she struggled into her olive-green coveralls that hung on the peg next to Jack’s woolen coat. She pulled a red knit cap over her brown hair and tied a wool gray scarf around her neck. With all that outerwear on, she could barely move. She hoped she’d be warm enough.

After Ellen stuffed her boot sock covered feet into her snow boots, she put on wool-lined chore gloves. Now she was about as insulated from the blizzard as she was going to get.

She grabbed the large, square, red flashlight off the shelf above the coats. With a grimace, she did a double check to make sure she hadn’t forgotten an article of clothing. She couldn’t think of what it would be, so she guessed she was prepared to face the elements. She had to be since she didn’t have a choice. Jack wasn’t there to take her turn.

It wouldn’t be right to let baby lambs suffer in the frigid barn without attention. It certainly wouldn’t help their farm’s profit column where sheep raising was concerned if she let any newborn lambs freeze to death from neglect.

Ellen gripped the doorknob tight in case the wind caught the door and blew it out of her hand. She braced herself and faced the bitter blast of air that hit her in the face. The gust threatened to knock her sideways. Gripping the porch post, she stepped across the porch in the knee-deep snowdrift.

In the glow of the front yard night light, the eddying motion of the dense, white haze was proof of what she imagined the storm would be like as it obscured everything from her sight. She was used to Iowa winters, but she had to steel herself for what was ahead of her before she moved forward.

The porch steps were buried as deep as the whole porch foundation. Taking a guess about where to step, Ellen plunged off. She missed the steps and sank knee-deep into her flower bed. She waded around the corner of the house and was struck by a strong nor-eastern gust, carrying a swirl of blinding snow. It was hard to see what was right in front of her let alone what was ahead of her.

Moist flakes lashed at her face. She ducked her head so that her nose and chin were inside her coveralls and scarf. No longer than Ellen had been outside, her chin was stinging from the snow plastered on it. Her nose burned as she inhaled the freezing wind.

Ellen squinted to see where to put her feet as she tried to figure out what was ahead of her. A powder-like mist blew along the top of the white heap that had barricaded the barnyard gate on both sides of it. Ellen could see for sure she’d wouldn’t be able to get the gate open.

Shoveling would do no good. The wind would drive the fine snow right back in the hole where she took a shovel full out and all over her, too.

She’d have to climb over the cattle panel fence behind the house. Walking into the storm’s full force, her glasses plastered with snow, blinding her. Ellen stopped long enough to take off her glasses and put them in one of her coverall pockets. Then she grabbed a fence post with a heap of fluffy snow on top that reminded her of white icing on a cake.

With a grip on the wooden post, she climbed the panel and swung one leg over. She was able to get a toe hold in the panel. With as tight a grip as her cold fingers would allow on the panel, she swung the other leg over and climbed down.

Ellen made her way across the barnyard to the barn which looked like a black, snow-capped mountain until she was closer. Once she reached the barn wall, she found the drift in front of the gate had made its way along the barn. The drift was deep in front of the walk-in door and about a foot and a half away. She opened the door as far as she could and squeezed through the crack.

Chapter 4

Inside, the barn was pitch black, and the banging noises were clearly audible, sounding really close by. Ellen’s hand trembled as she felt for the light switch beside the door frame. She flipped on the barn lights and was thankful to still have electricity on a night like this one. At times, in wind and ice storms, the electric wires became disconnected. That put them in the dark for hours. At least, she might be able to see what was making the banging noises if the sounds kept it up long enough.

As the other rooms in the barn lit up, the sheep became disturbed, realizing that they weren’t alone. They moved restlessly in the straw bedding, making loud rustling noises with their feet. In unison, they bawled, making a lot of racket. They thought it was feeding time.

She pulled her handkerchief out of her coveralls back pocket and wiped the melting snow off her face. Then she dried off her glasses so she could use them.

The barn felt almost warm to her face compared to the tempest raging outside, even though with the wind chill the temperature was around zero. It was the heat from the animals that made the difference.

As Ellen walked into the lambing pen room, she heard an unmistakable sound, the soft muffle of a new mother in the holding room. What she wasn’t hearing by the time she reached the holding room door was the banging noises. That had stopped. As nervous as the banging made her, she was glad not to hear it with her so close.

She opened the door. The startled sheep scattered. In one corner were two shaky lambs wobbling on their feet. They gave squeaky baas at their concerned mother as she licked first one than the other, trying to dry their wet wool as fast as she could.

Ellen picked up the newborns by their back legs. Ice crystals had formed on their short white nap already. They needed to warm up fast so they would feel like nursing.

She held the lambs down low so the ewe could see and smell them while she backed toward the lambing pen door. The worried mother stayed right with Ellen and her lambs until the family was in one of the eight lambing pens.

Quickly, Ellen shut the door to keep the other sheep out and went back to shut the pen door. She looked over the pen wall at the new family. This was too cold a night to walk off and leave the lambs with the hope they would survive on their own until morning.

Ellen went in the pen and pushed the ewe against the wall. She held the mother there with her legs while she reached under the ewe’s belly. She squeezed both teats, checking for a stream of milk. Just her luck, the ewe hadn’t come to her milk, or she had a bad bag.

Either way, that meant the lambs would have to be fed by Ellen at least one time until she gave the ewe a chance to feel better. When she came back from the house, she’d bring a shot of medicine that helped new mothers let down their milk.

Ellen wasn’t thrilled that she had to make a trip to the house and come back to the barn right away. She’d have to fight the snow and climb the fence with two bottles of warm milk and a syringe of medicine.

Knowing that every minute was precious to the new lambs’ survival, she positioned a heat lamp over the shivering twins to help them dry off and hurried away.

When she opened the walk-in door, a sharp blast of crisp wind drove the snow at her and took her breath away. Ellen shivered as a good handful of snow came off the top of the door and slipped passed the back of her coveralls collar and scarf. It melted and trickled down her back as she climbed the fence.

As Ellen battled the frozen drifts, she tried to step in the half-filled tracks she’d made coming to the barn. It was easier than walking in deeper snow, making new tracks.

She rounded the house and found the porch buried deeper with snow than when she left. The drift was piled high against the front door and along the porch to right under the window sill now.

Ellen could see the top of the handle of the scoop shovel she left leaning against the wall. She grabbed the handle and tugged it out of the snow. The shovel was plastered with wet snow. She bumped it against a porch post until the snow fell away in clumps. Now she could clear the portion of the porch in front of the door. That’s all the digging she needed to do to get into the house.

The Family Home History

The story of our family home on highway 30 in Benton County Iowa.

Risner History Repeats Itself

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I remembered a laid back memory recently after seeing Duane’s house without its roof because of the August 10th derecho that destroyed many things in its path around Keystone, Iowa. In the late 1970’s, my husband Harold, son Duane and I moved into the mobile home in the picture on my parents’ property. That mobile home had belonged to my brother, Bill, when he lived in Kansas and Illinois. He moved back to Belle Plaine and parked the mobile home at my parents. Shortly after that, John Bright, Mom’s father passed away in Belle Plaine and Grandma Veder didn’t want to live alone. Mom asked her to come live in the mobile home. The house my grandparents lived in belonged to their daughter Bonnie. She rented the house after Grandma left. Grandma lived by my parents maybe a year and was ready to move back to the house in Belle Plaine when the renter moved out.

So the mobile home was empty when Harold got a job working for the Iowa Department Of Transportation in the Blairstown shop in the late seventies. In the years that followed I was taking care of 60 sheep and a small herd of milk goats, farrowing 14 sows plus checking on 24 stock cows in calving seasons about a mile and a half north of us. There were cages of rabbits, a flock of chickens, fryers, turkeys, and ducks. We were considered the family zoo when the younger generation visited.

Duane graduated from high school in 1983 and moved to the Amana colonies. He worked at the Ox Yoke Bakery. He’d come home on weekends often and bring us the most delicious rolls and pies that hadn’t sold. I can’t remember the exact date of what I’m going to tell you, but it was the summer of 1984 or 85 on a summer night. Our bedroom was on the east end of the mobile home, the living room kitchen combination was next and down a hall was a small bedroom I used for a sewing room, the bathroom and Duane’s bedroom took up the end.

In the middle of the night, a thunderstorm rolled over us. I’ve always been nervous about storms. Guess it stems from when brother John and I were little near Schell City, Missouri on the farm in what is known as tornado alley. During night storms, Dad would pace from window to window while the lightning lit up the sky. He was looking for a tornado. When the storms were fierce enough to worry Dad, Mom would wake John and me up, wrap a quilt around us and Dad carried John while Mom held my hand as we raced the few feet to the root cellar we called the cave. Dad held the lantern, sizzling when the rain hit the hot globe, so we could see to get down the steps. The lantern-lit the cold dark narrow space between vegetable shelves and potato bins so we could find the wooden bench at the back end. Mom stood beside John and me while Dad stayed in the open door where he could watch the storm until moved on through. Then it was time to go back to bed.

There came a time I had a real reason to be nervous during a late-night storm when we lived in the mobile home. The wind blasted the walls, and the roof made popping noises. The rain came hard, and the thunder boomed with each sharp crack of lightning. Suddenly there was the loud sound of ripping tin. The whole mobile home shook. Harold was thrashing about, trying to get up fast, shaking the bed even worse. I had been more asleep than awake. I asked what happened as I jumped up too. Harold didn’t know so he reached around the doorway to flip the light switch for the kitchen. The light and shade were dangling from the electric wiring a few inches from the tabletop. We walked to the hallway and with a flashlight could see a tree laying on its side taking up the hall to the bathroom door. Well, at the time, it looked to us like a whole tree. Actually, it was one large branch on the ancient maple tree behind the mobile home. As we watched the rain pouring in from the missing roof, I remembered Duane had a large stereo set he prized with speakers and a small television in his room. I knew getting wet wasn’t going to be good for them. So I told Harold to hold the flashlight toward the bedroom door so I could see what I was doing. The tree branch was off the floor because it was resting on Duane’s bed. I made three trips or four trips with what I rescued from the bedroom. There was a piece of the roof over Duane’s things so they were dry. I’d hand each item to Harold and go back for something else. All the while, I was getting wet from the rain filtering through the tree and listening to the rustle of the leaves on the settling branch. When I was done, we moved Duane’s things to the other end of the mobile home. I don’t remember anything else until daylight. If we went back to bed, we surely didn’t rest well. In the morning, we found the ancient maple tree on its side and covering the end of the mobile home.

Thank goodness for neighbors. In no time, the tree was cut up and cleaned out of the way and plans were made to replace the mobile home with the one we lived in until 1993. As I thought back about crawling under the tree in Duane’s room that stormy night, I decided that might not have been a good idea. What if the bed had collapsed from the weight of the tree while I was under it? I then thanked God for his grace and goodness with my next thought. That calamity could have happened on a night when Duane was home sleeping in his bed. For the eighteen years we lived by my parents, every time there was a storm I went over to stay in the house with my parents. Harold would stubbornly stay in his recliner. I was always so sure no storm could get to us in the house. The living room was protected on all sides by rooms. There was only about five feet on the south with a window in it that wasn’t. How wrong was I when August 10, 2020, the roof of that house blew off and the attic floor gave way, dropping whatever was stored in the attic on the living room floor. Again I thank God that Duane and Beverly made it safely out of the house after the storm ended.

Fay’s Reflections On Minnie’s Home In The Hollow

The Home In The Hollow

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Fred and Cyntitha Phillips

My mother-in-law is about to turn a hundred years old and in the nursing home now. We’re fortunate enough to have her life’s story told by her to me when she was in her early nineties. Her memory was keen. I taped Minnie as I questioned her so I had her story in her words and added details. I self-published her story for her large extended family so everyone would be able to have a reference book when questioned by grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Even I have to go to Minnie’s book and look up details. That’s what happened when I brought home a framed and matted poem titled The Home In The Hollow Minnie had cut from a magazine or newspaper years ago. I’ve studied the poem and wondered what special place it was that Minnie connected the poem with. Finally, after going through the book, I had a duh moment. I’ve been in this family fifty-six years and have been to the home in the hollow that Minnie felt was so special. Those of us who have been in the family half a century have all felt the same way, because each time we went to the home in the hollow the couple that lived there made us feel at home. Minnie probably couldn’t phrase how she felt about place, and the poem did it for her. Now I am thrilled to be the keeper of the poem.

This couple, Fred and Cyntitha (pronounced Sin tith a) Phillips were Minnie’s parents. Behind Fred and his beloved Tithe, down the hill from the house, is Dye Creek. This is the last farm they owned together and was called the Dye Place. The roads are winding red clay and before street signs everyone gave directions to travelers to go by whoever lived along the road at the time. Fred and Tithe lived on this place from 1948 until Fred died in 1981 and shortly thereafter Tithe moved to Thayer, Missouri. I imagine the family named Dye were the first to homestead that farm or at least lived there for so many years that no one living could remember the first owners. Therefore the creek was given their name and the Dye place name stuck from years of their living in that hollow. No need to change it to the name Phillips place. Others wouldn’t know here the farm was by that name.

Harold knew his way around the area well since he started life there. We went so often that even I could find my way around. We’d get to a country driveway that headed north and one that headed south. The north one went to Minnie’s sister Ethel and her husband Frandell Risner. The south driveway went to the Dye Place. The road had cattle guards on it to keep the cattle that grazed on grass and tree sprouts from getting out. Made for easier driving when we didn’t have to get out to open and shut the barb wire fence gates. In no time, we made a bend and there was the meandering Dye Creek in the hollow and on the hill was Fred and Cyntitha’s house with an open porch in front and one in back. The yard was fenced with a picket fence and yard gate. We drove through Dye Creek past the spring house that the cold spring water rushed through. In side that shed was milk, cream and butter chilling. In days gone by, that was the refrigerator. Fred and Tithe met us at the yard gate with greetings and hugs. The days there were spent eating Tithe’s good cooking and resting under in the shade of the trees. Come dusk we listened to the crickets, frogs, and whippoorwills. The very birds the poet was referring to.

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Home In The Hollow

by Frank Dycus 1987

There’s a home in the hollow with a bubbling stream.

Where I can lay down and dream and dream;

And I can go places I’ve never been.

And I can be old or a young child again,

A home in the hollow where peace lives on,

Where life can stand still with the breaking of the dawn.

There’s a home in the hollow with tall, tall, trees,

Where wee creatures live way high in the leaves;

And each night they join on their porches to sing,

With the frogs and crickets by the ponds and the spring;

And all the nightbirds join in on the song,

And the home in the hollow feels like it belongs.

There is a home in the hollow where the morning sunrise

is a great breathless wonder to the beholder’s eyes;

Where a child can grow happy, wiser, and strong.

And family ties can go on and on;

Where people can share in the joy they give,

At home in the hollow where the good people live.

I’d never heard of Frank Dycus so I looked him up. Here is his biography. He is best known an accomplished songwriter.

b. Marion Franklin Dycus, 5 December 1939, Hardmoney, Kentucky, USA. Dycus initially had no thoughts of pursuing a career as a songwriter. At school he was reckoned to be studious and was writing poems to his mother when he was 14. He relocated to California in 1955 and soon afterwards, he enlisted in the US Air Force. He learned to play guitar and with his friend, singer Don Gonsalez, formed a duo called Don And Frank. They attempted to be soundalike Everly Brothers and found regular bookings over two or three States sometimes opening for touring stars such as Jim Reeves and Buck Owens and for a time they were regulars on KPEG Spokane. After discharge in 1962, Dycus spent a short time in Nashville but failed to find work and eventually settled in Wichita, where he worked for Boeing in the aircraft industry and also hosted a radio show on KATE. In 1967, he returned to Nashville and worked as a songwriter in Pete Drake’s music publishing company. In 1970, Dycus formed his own company, Empher Music, in partnership with Larry Kingston and Roger Fox. They achieved several minor hits including Wynn Stewart’s Top 50 with ‘Paint Me A Rainbow’. In 1972, they sold their company to Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner and Dycus joined Parton’s Owpar Publishing. He also managed Parton and Wagoner’s Fireside Recording Studios. At Wagoner’s instigation, Dycus made some recordings of a skiffle nature as Lonesome Frank And The Kitchen Band, with Wagoner helping out with backing vocal on some tracks. In 1979, he worked in Sweden with Abba’s drummer and other local musicians before returning to the USA to record an album that gained Swedish release on Sonet Records. In 1981, George Strait gained his first two Billboard chart hits with Dycus’ songs namely ‘Unwound’ (number 6) and ‘Down And Out’ (number 16) and the following year Strait gained another number 6 hit with the Dycus song, ‘Marina Del Rey’. In 1987, Dycus, who had been in failing health for sometime, had heart bypass surgery and was inactive for more than two years. In 1990, after initially deciding to retire from the music business, he formed a new publishing company in Nashville and gained further success with George Jones’ recordings of ‘I Don’t Need Your Rocking Chair’ and ‘Walls Can Fall’, songs he co-wrote with Billy Yates.

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