Joy Neal Kidney's Blog, page 59

Why 1846 was an “Astonishing and Decisive” Year

In 1846, the planet Neptune was discovered, September 23.

Iowa became a State, the 29th, on December 28, 1846.

As author Timothy Foote, an editor at Smithsonian, points out, beyond the Smithsonian Institution’s founding, 1846 was an astonishing and decisive year in American history. “It was the year the Mexican War began. The year when the country, taking a quantum leap forward, suddenly completed the westward course of empire that Jefferson had dreamed of when he sent Lewis and Clark out exploring 40 years before. As 1846 began, the Union occupied less than half of what is the continental United States today; when it was over we possessed, or were soon to possess, all of it.”

The man who set it all in motion was President James K. Polk when he acquired California, New Mexico, and most or all of what are now Arizona, Nevada and Utah.

Meanwhile, in Indiana, a baby girl was born that year to Ephraim and Lucy Jane Moore. They named their sixth child Emelia Ann. Emelia would eventually become Leora Goff’s beloved grandmother.

In Iowa.

And in Illinois, also in 1846, Sam Wilson (who grew up with Indians in Ohio) married Emily Huyck. They would eventually become grandparents of Clabe Wilson.

In Iowa.

Nearly seventy years after Iowa became a state, Leora and Clabe would be married.

In Iowa.

I’m thankful that my ancestors decided that this new state would be a good place to settle. Happy Birthday, Iowa!

 

The Dexter Farm

1950s

1950. I loved getting to roller skate in the back room of that house.

1970s

While Guy was in Vietnam, I lived with the folks on the farm south of Dexter, in the little green mouse-free house that Mom had designed and Dad (and Uncle Bill) built when the old American Foursquare farmhouse got too ramshackle.

Grandma Neal’s foot went through the front porch, so it was time to tear it down.

Moving out of the old house, about 1960. Gloria is on the porch roof. The 1952 Chevy is at left. Dad used it for a pickup. The family car then was a 1958. (He missed my favorite 1957 Chevy by one year.) The rest are neighbors’ pickups.

I sorta got homesick knowing we’d be moving out of state again, so took a camera with me when I hiked down to the bridge and into Dad’s fields of corn, oats, and soybeans. I took pictures of the “back” of the barn, the granary, the steel grain bins I’d helped Dad with when I was in high school, the old hog shed.

During winters Dad would build things, machinery and from wood. He built a small hog something and a gravity wagon, which became a job for my sis Gloria and me to paint red the next spring, wearing shower caps so we wouldn’t end up with red hair.

1970s

While we lived in Colorado, I did a lot of stitchery and had learned needlepoint. I’m not good at art, like Gloria is (she taught art for 34 years), but discovered that photographs of the farm had taken care of the problem I had with angles. I plotted the farm on a big sheet of brown paper, counted stitchery squares, figuring out about what size it would end up.

Taken during the winter, but shows angles and relationships of buildings and bins.

Artists can do what they want with their canvas. I mine, there are lilacs booming (May), corn tasseled (whenever), parsley (for humans and the larvae of Swallowtail butterflies), tomatoes ripe (August), and pumpkins about ready to harvest (later).

Once I caught a mouse in the top floor of that red granary. I never did it again after it sank its little teeth into my finger as I climbed down to go show everyone.

Gloria’s fluffy cat Dudley lounges at the front door. I wish I’d though to take a picture of Mom at the clothesline.

I had the needlework framed and gave it to Dad for Christmas the year we moved back to Iowa with our two year old. He was delighted.

Dad had just opened the needlepoint of the farm and was showing Mom. It’s Christmas so he’s probably wearing new overalls, or at least his best ones.

It lives with us in the suburbs now, a reminder of childhood and warm memories.

Bacon and Eggs for Christmas Dinner 1945

Christmas 1945

The war had been over officially since early September, but the Wilsons were still in limbo, with one son buried and two sons still listed as Missing in Action. Danny had been missing since February, in Austria. The war in Europe had ended in May. Still no word by Christmas.

And Dale. He and his crew were shot down in November two years earlier. Nothing. At least they were able to write the families of the other crew members, but they were all left with a strange anxiety. 

When Junior was killed in August, Delbert came home to Perry for the funeral. He was soon discharged from the Navy and moved home with his wife (who was expecting another baby) and daughter. They lived on the acreage with his folks.

CEM Donald and Rose Wilson with their Studebaker, at the Wilson acreage south of Perry

With two sons still missing, how can life begin to settle into a routine? But there were chickens to feed, eggs to gather, and Leora regularly churned butter now that they had cows. Clabe went to the dentist for a bad toothache.

And the Wilsons were finally able to get a phone installed. It rang one October night after 9:00. Donald and Rose had just arrived in Perry in their Studebaker. They’d driven from Washington State. Donald was still in the Navy, still thinking then that he would make it his career–having served since 1934. 

Warren Neal with Joy, Donald Wilson, Clabe Wilson, Delbert Wilson with Leora Darlene. Warren and Delbert had just been discharged from the Army Air Force and the Navy.

Donna Gaye was born November 21 to Delbert and Evelyn at the King’s Daughters Hospital. When Doris and Darlene visited their folks, they also went to the hospital to see Evelyn and baby Donna.

Clabe had a tooth pulled. Evelyn and ten-day-old Donna Gaye came home from the hospital. Leora churned four pounds of butter, which they sold in Perry, probably at the Thriftway, along with eggs and twenty hens they’d raised. 

December 4 was Leora’s 55th birthday. She received her annual “kerchief” from her mother (who lived in Omaha), a plant, nightgowns, and a box of Drews Chocolates from their old hometown of Dexter. 

Delbert begin to wire the little house for electricity. Clabe had more toothaches, and Leora as well. Clabe had another tooth pulled the next day. Leora’s jaw was swollen but she waited another week to have two teeth pulled. Clabe bought a Guernsey bull. Leora churned more butter. 

The Wilson family probably listened to the National Tree Lighting Ceremony, the first since December 24, 1941. “This is the Christmas that a war-weary world has prayed for. . .,” President Truman began.

The paper in this flip diary is brittle, but Leora wrote in it nearly every day. Even as an older woman, she’d record the temperature and weather three times a day. She and Donald also began their letters with the date and weather.

—–

Sleet and snow fell all day Christmas Eve. Sam and Darlene, with Richard and seven-month-old Robert were to bring “roast chick & dressing” the next day but couldn’t. So Clabe and Leora, Delbert’s family, and Doris’s family had a Christmas dinner of bacon and eggs. 

What a comfort to have their oldest son and his family living with them, a blessing at the end of such a terrible year. Even in the middle of the heartache.

 

Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II is the story of the Wilson family. Five brother served. Only two came home. All five brothers are featured on the Dallas County Freedom Rock at Minburn, where the family farmed during the war, until all their sons had left for the service.

Grandma Ruby Neal’s Christmas Kuchen Bread

 

Anna Agatha (Ohrt) Blohm, who came from Pellworm, Schleswig-Holstein, Germany, when she was about 3 years old.

From the memoirs of Ruby (Blohm) Neal: “My mother was an excellent cook and one of the breads that we enjoyed was ‘kuchen.’ It was a German bread and she made it with bread dough, only making it will more sugar and shortening. The loaves were made flat with butter, sugar, and cinnamon on top.

“Mother used to let us break off corners before it cooled. A neighbor boy said he always knew when it was time to come over, as he could smell it.

“I always wondered how to spell it until it was made more common, using an egg. I thought ‘kuchen’ was a broken pronunciation of a German word.”

That’s about a close to the recipe as we’re going to get. Here’s one to try from the internet.

I associate both Grandma’s suet pudding and kuchen bread with Christmastime, although the suet pudding was served after the Christmas feast. Did the kuchen bread arrive before Christmas?

There are eight “Neal cousins” in the photo. Front: Gloria Neal, Dixie Thomas, Sandra Grant, ____, Patty Wells, Kenny Shepherd, Glen Heckman. Back: Bruce Atherton, Vincent Wells, me, Susan Shepherd, Judy Neal, Bonnie Johnson, Bob Cook, Jane Neal

One time when I was in high school, at least 16-years-old and driving, Grandpa delivered loaves to each “Neal family” at choir practice at church. All five families lived in the Dexter area and our Aunt Nadine was the choir director. Grandpa liked to count how many grandchildren were in the choir on Sundays.

We lived four miles south of town and were to take the kuchen bread home. Gloria is two years younger so I drove. The sack of homemade bread smelled so wonderful that Gloria opened it to discover two smallish loaves. They weren’t baked in bread pans, but were shaped on baking sheets.

I wonder who made the decision. Neither of us owns up to it. Gloria tore off a chunk for both of us. We each had another. And another.

Well, by the time we got home, one loaf of kuchen bread was tucked away. In our tummies. At least we saved the other loaf for our folks.

No wonder Grandma’s neighbor boy could smell when it was time to pay her family a visit.

 

 

The Old Thriftway Store at Perry, Iowa

1943

In December 1943, Clabe and Leora Wilson were struggling to get all the work done on the farm near Minburn, Iowa, where they were tenant farmers. Since their youngest son, Junior, had joined the Army Air Force two months earlier, all five sons were serving in WWII.

Leora had located a five-star service flag to hang in their farmhouse window.

On Leora’s December 4 birthday, a telegram had arrived announcing that their middle son, Dale, a copilot on a B-25 in New Guinea, had been missing in action since November 27.

Still unaware of the news about Dale, Junior wrote home from College Detachment at Stillwater, Oklahoma.

       “Mom and Dad,

“Got the pictures from home. Joe makes me want to reach right out and pet him! The one of Dad holding the gun with Spats and Joe [the Wilsons’ pet dogs] makes me think of home. A picture is better than a letter itself.

“I am bunking with a farmer who had a John Deere. We do a lot of talking on the subject. 

“Stillwater is about the size of Perry. We went to a wild-west show. Boy, these old Oklahomans sure like the shooting and the flying dust. I will have to admit that I do too!

“Oklahoma A&M stands for Agricultural and Mechanical. We passed some hog pens the other day and the guys held their noses. I just laughed and said it reminded me of home! Ha!

“I got your present. I’m telling you, the figs and nuts really tasted good, although they were devoured in about 15 minutes! It reminded me of the good old times when we went to Perry and invaded the Thriftway store. No doubt that’s where you got them.

“How’s it going on the farm? Boy, how I would like to be there on the bottom today. Might get in on a little pheasant or fox hunting if I were back. You know, I could even stand the hog dust, too! Ha!

       “Take Care and Merry Christmas, Junior”

This is interesting because not too many weeks earlier, Junior had bemoaned that it looked like he’d be a farmer for the duration.

1944

A year later, his parents had bought an acreage near Perry. Even when they lived at Minburn, they traded in Perry, probably because the Thriftway would buy Leora’s eggs and butter.

Dale Wilson was still MIA, and Danny Wilson was a P-38 fighter pilot who had been sent to Italy for combat. Junior had passed Primary and Basic Training to become a pilot, just about to leave for Advanced. He wrote home from Waco, Texas, in late 1944:

        “Dear Mom and Dad,

“I suppose you are having cool weather up there now. Probably some good coon-hunting weather. We had a pet coon on a long chain here at the base. We could pet him like a kitten. I don’t think I’ll kill any more of them. 

“I’m in Waco for more Basic Training. The gym is right across the road. They have brand new barbells. By Christmas, I’ll be in Advanced Training in fighters. They want the younger boys in the fighters since they can stand more strain and their reflexes are faster. 

“Are you having fun fixing up your new home? I’m sending home more money. Maybe it will help buy a bucket of coal or a big box of bran from the Thriftway. 

“Junior”

The Perry Thriftway Store. The cars look like the photo is from about WWII.

Just a couple of mentions of Perry’s Thriftway store, thanks to some old letters.

Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II

The Local New Horizons Band

My husband Guy has played trumpet since 2010 with the Des Moines New Horizons Band, which is in its 18th year and meets at Rieman Music.

The concept, which has member groups in six countries, was the idea of Dr. Roy Ernst from Eastman School of Music in Rochester, NY. The first group, designed to serve senior citizens, was started in 1991. There are nine New Horizons Bands in Iowa.

There are no tryouts or auditions, with “your best is good enough” the idea. Some players are band directors and music teachers, some are beginners. Des Moines band includes retired doctors, a pharmacist, a nurse, a pastor or two, and at least one retired air traffic controller. They come from as far away as Ames. The suggested minimum age of 50 for players changes with each group.

Guy, a retired air traffic controller, plays his flugelhorn. He hadn’t played his trumpet since his freshman year in college.

Ron Rieckmann, a retired band director, directs the Des Moines group. New Horizons gives concerts each spring, usually for retirement homes, and Christmas concerts–until these Covid years.

Last Sunday they played their first concert in two years for the Perry Fine Arts Series in Perry, Iowa.

Their Christmas music was enhanced by Santa hats, reindeer antlers, and Director Rieckman’s festive Christmas-lights jacket.

Two New Stories from Gracie Press, Gracie being a Charming Chicken

PeeP! Book One in the “Once Through a Garden Gate” Series

You can learn a lot from a little flock of chickens, such as you are more than good enough. John Spiers weaves gentle wisdom through his stories, watching his chickens enough to tell them apart and give them names, which takes time. He learns some Chicken language, and they learn to understand the big Gardener.

We meet Gracie, who has a lump on her side, we get in on a Worm Olympics, chicken ballet (with a guest dancer), learn that words can be hurtful, and that chickens can be contemplative. I look forward to sharing John Spiers’s delightful flock of winsome chickens with my granddaughter!

BwOwK!Book Two in the “Once Through a Garden Gate” SeriesDid you know that tan is the shortest and least glamorous color name? And that chickens know things? So do wrens. This is a charming book about a flock of winsome chickens and their wise human friend.But it about so much more than a story about chickens. It’s also about friendship and creativity, leadership and love. It even has a Sewer Rat who knows some French words!What a delightful book for an adult to share with a child. The stories will lead you to discuss interesting things, because that’s what friends do, chicken or otherwise.

Author and Illustrator John Spiers

John Spiers is a writer, artist, and “dad” to a small flock of chickens who live in the center of his backyard garden.

While he often produced small writing and drawing project over the years, he never found his creative niche until he decided to raise some baby chicks. They became the characters in his stories and the subjects of his drawings. Now they are his friends, and he spends time with them each evening under the shade of the camellias bordering his backyard garden.

His stories occur in the intersection where the world of people meets the world of chickens. It is an intersection where the unexpected can happen. Chickens can talk with people who truly love them. They can also dance ballet and even put on backyard comedy shows.

His work seeks to share the same joy he feels with his chickens along with bits of timeless “chicken wisdom” about life which he has learned from them.

—–More delightful Gracie Press books from earlier this year.

Radio City Rockette Julie Branam

Julie Branam grew up just a few block from where we live in central Iowa. Her parents grew up near Earlham, Iowa.

Her mother, Sandy, isn’t much older than I am. I remember Sandy as a girl when Dad ran some cattle at the Compton place. Ivan Compton was Sandy’s dad. Mr. Compton as one of our friendly school bus drivers at Earlham. He also became Julie Branam’s grandfather.

Julie loved ballet, dancing with the Des Moines Ballet Company. She first saw the Rockettes in New York City with the director of the ballet company, and decided she would like to make dance a career. Wow, could she! It took a while, but she not only became a dancer during the 1980s with the world-famous Radio City Rockettes, she is now the director and choreographer of this iconic New York-based dance troupe.

 

I was surprised that the Rockettes began in the 1920s. Originally, a Rockette had to be between 5’2″and 5’6 ½”, but today, she is between 5’6″and 5’10 ½” and has to be proficient in tap, modern, jazz and ballet. Starting with just 16 women, over the years the troupe grew to a line of 36 dancers. Here’s a great history of the Rockettes.

The spring of 1962, the graduating seniors at Earlham High School took a class trip to New York City and Washington, DC. Yes, we got to see the Rockettes perform!

This is a delightful short video of Rockette Julie Branam.

A short one about the Wooden Soldiers.

 

 

 

 

Sarah Burning by Tim Ritter, Plus a TV Interview about the Fire that Defined His Family

After Sarah Burning arrived, I couldn’t put it down. It’s a recently-published family story that needed telling and sharing. It must have been challenging to experience the scenes while writing them. The reader is drawn into the fire, the disaster, the day-by-dayness of the aftermath.

Sarah herself, the author’s grandmother, was such an amazing woman, hopeful and resilient in spite of her tough journey, even enduring clinical trials to help advance burn treatments. A riveting and incredible story.

 

Author Tim Ritter was born in Springfield, Missouri, the third of four children in a blue collar family. He dreamed of being a writer when he was nine years old, realizing that expressing myself on paper was as much a part of him as his swollen tonsils. Over the years the desire to write has yielded poems, stage productions, books, technical articles, speeches and my own comic strip. Tim has become a highly sought featured speaker, with many entertaining and informative presentations.

Here’s a recent Ozarks Live interview of Tim about the fire.

Tim Ritter resides near Fair Grove, Missouri, with his wife Lisa on their wooded property which they affectionately (and laughingly) call Frog Acres. Here’s his website.

—–

I’ve also appreciated his book of poems, Soul Sketches,  an eclectic gathering of memories and passions. From the amusing “Candelabras and Scarlet Tights” to lying in the dirt with his son as Civil War reenactors for a film in “State Blood and French Fries,” it’s a fascinating collection.

My favorite is the surprising and transcendent “Joseph’s Prayer.” A laudable collection.

Sarah Burning by Tim Ritter

After Sarah Burning arrived, I couldn’t put it down. It’s a recently-published family story that needed telling and sharing. It must have been challenging to experience the scenes while writing them. The reader is drawn into the fire, the disaster, the day-by-dayness of the aftermath.

Sarah herself, the author’s grandmother, was such an amazing woman, hopeful and resilient in spite of her tough journey, even enduring clinical trials to help advance burn treatments. A riveting and incredible story.

 

Author Tim Ritter was born in Springfield, Missouri, the third of four children in a blue collar family. He dreamed of being a writer when he was nine years old, realizing that expressing myself on paper was as much a part of him as his swollen tonsils. Over the years the desire to write has yielded poems, stage productions, books, technical articles, speeches and my own comic strip. Tim has become a highly sought featured speaker, with many entertaining and informative presentations.

Here’s a recent Ozarks Live interview of Tim about the fire.

Tim Ritter resides near Fair Grove, Missouri, with his wife Lisa on their wooded property which they affectionately (and laughingly) call Frog Acres. Here’s his website.

—–

I’ve also appreciated his book of poems, Soul Sketches,  an eclectic gathering of memories and passions. From the amusing “Candelabras and Scarlet Tights” to lying in the dirt with his son as Civil War reenactors for a film in “State Blood and French Fries,” it’s a fascinating collection.

My favorite is the surprising and transcendent “Joseph’s Prayer.” A laudable collection.