Mari Collier's Blog, page 8

Musings

Today's posting comes from a file that I call Notes and Musings.

People will persist in asking writers where they “get” their ideas. The question is really not one that can be easily answered. Life is often a good response as every writer incorporates the tone, mood, interests of the people and society around them.

My writings describe aliens stranded on Earth and their return to the home planet. They may be aliens, but they still possess the drive for family or companionship. In Earthbound (Volume 1), I included a race of aliens that no longer live on Earth, but require certain commodities found on Earth. I do not know if I ran into this particular paragraph in a history book or if it was online. I do know that I envisioned them prior to writing any of my novels. I have since searched online, but I have not been able to find this report:

Muncies: A reputed tribe of “light skinned peoples” who live/lived in the wilds of Sonora on a branch of the Gila River. Thought to be of European descent. The tales come from the early trappers and traders from Missouri, Santa Fe, Taos, and south into Mexico City. Lt. Charles Wilkes, commander of US government exploring expedition to the Pacific Coast in 1838-1842 gave an account of them. He put them southwest of Yonta River and the tribal name as Monkey Tribe. This name came from a corruption of their actual tribal name. They were said to be highly civilized and manufactured blankets, shoes, and other items for trading. He put them in the high mountains and said they lived in houses.

It’s difficult to find a Muncie Tribe in the Southwest as the online information refers to the Muncie Tribe as the Muncie Tribe of Delaware Indians. This would make them a Northeastern to Midwestern people. There are some interesting legends about them which starts my mind going in another direction.

It makes me wonder if the trappers and traders told Lt. Wilkes tall tales to make him leave their area and pursue searching for information elsewhere. Lt. Wilkes was known to be a stern disciplinarian and the trappers and traders would not have wanted him examining what they did.

I felt such legends gave validity to my adding the Ayranians as a group of beings ran out of the portion of the galaxy ruled by the Justines. Legends are a way of telling stories. That is what every writer wants to do: Tell stories.

If you are curious, the Justines are the ones who exile the main character in Earthbound (Volume 1) and in Gather The Children. He doesn't play as large a role in Before We Leave, but he will be the main character of Return Of The Maca and will be out latter this year. The latter is the fourth of my science-fiction family saga.

You can find these books at
http://www.amazon.com/Earthbound-Volu...
http://www.amazon.com/Gather-Children...
http://www.amazon.com/Before-We-Leave...

Duchess

It seems so easy for some people to pump out blogs every day or week. I envy them their skill, but since so many of you have enjoyed my doggy stories, I've a few more to tell. There will be a break when I have guest Bloggers on.

When our children were three and two, I decided it was time for another dog as I now had my energy back. When I told my husband I was ready for another dog, his grey eyes lit up and he asked, “How big of a dog do you want?”

“Oh, about the size of a beagle would be great. We could handle the feed bill for a dog that size.” I should have known he had a dog in mind, but I just assumed he was ready to have a dog as part of our household.

That night he came home with a three-month-old puppy bitch. She was part red bone and blue tick, except she was white with red ticks. Her face and ears were like that of a blood hound, the breed used to develop the red bone, and she was as big as a full grown beagle.

“This is Duchess,” he announced. “I've some food out in the pickup for her. There’s also wood to build a fence around the carport so she can’t escape.”

By this time our children were crowding around wanting to see their new friend. My daughter is the doggy person in the family. Dogs love her. Dogs run to her and she welcomes them in her arms. Duchess, however, seemed to love them both. In fact, Duchess loved everyone. She did take a dislike to all garbage collectors, but whenever she “escaped” from our fence she would run out to meet the dog collector. We bailed her out of jail three times before she was a year old. Of course, all the people there loved her.

My husband brought home chain link fencing and posts and proceeded to fence the entire area around the back of our lot. “It will also keep the dogs out when she comes into heat.”

That was a good thought. A part collie, part retriever (he was a beautiful golden color) climbed over that six foot fence. I watched him in disbelieve and chased him out. He must have returned in the dark of night as two months and three days later, Duchess had a litter of beautiful puppies. She was a gentle mother and even let our daughter inside the doghouse with them. I do not know how many times I drug her out of there trying to convince her that she could get fleas. That, of course, was silly. She knew quite well that if she were going to “get” fleas from our dog, she would have already had them.

Of course, Duchess went with us when we moved to a larger house with an acre just north of Bell Road. Duchess loved that place. She could sleep on the roomy three car carport, under the row of oleander bushes, or she would lie under my husband’s pickup in the summer as it provided shade, a breeze, and a view of the house and yard. She also used that spot as a launching pad. She hated sparrows and cats. For such a slow moving dog she could barrel out from under the truck and catch a sparrow on the fly. I hate to admit it, but she also killed a neighbor’s cat. Fortunately, the neighbor loved Duchess too.
Another reason for Duchess to love our new spot was the grocery story that was one block to the South and to the East of us. The front of the store faced Bell Road and the back toward our street. Duchess would wander over there and as usual, made friends with everyone. The butchers started giving her bones and or scraps. Once she came back dragging part of the bone from the leg of a steer. She really had to work at that one. Oh, I forgot to mention. Duchess could smile. Wackiest thing in the world to watch as her face looked so doleful and she would bring her lips back and smile.

Somehow, we kept her locked up when in heat, but the inevitable happened. There was no fence and Duchess once again was in the family way. They were beautiful pups, but much more like hound dogs. We assumed the father may have had some Labrador in his breeding as one of the pups was coal black except for some white on his throat.

The pups were about six weeks old when I heard the most horrible wailing outside. Part of it was a hound’s bay but the other was a jumble of puppy wailing. I rushed to the carport and opened the door. There was Duchess with her pups ringed around her and her forepaw was holding down a ground squirrel struggling to get away. Duchess looked up at me, but continued her lesson of teaching her puppies to bay.

This time, we weren't able to give away all of the puppies and had to take the excess ones to the pound. That broke my heart. “No more,” I told my husband, and we made the appointment to have Duchess spayed. It was then her tumors started. I don’t know if that had anything to do with that problem, but up until then she had been an extremely healthy dog.

We did keep the biggest pup from that last litter. He was huge, red, and a smooth-haired hound dog, but Brute is another dog.

Duchess lived about three more years when the tumors became too large to control and arthritis crippled her movements. There was no medication for canine arthritis then. I held her while we were at the veterinarian office.

Pets in Phoenix

At one time during our Phoenix sojourn, we had three dogs. This was not intentional on my part. Our son came home with a small, buff colored, mixed hound dog puppy. The puppy was just long enough in the body to suspect some dachshund in the parentage. He promptly named him Charles A. Little Dog. That was shortened to Charles A. when calling him. Our daughter had Falina, a little sheltie-like Collie dog. Falina accepted this small addition to the household.

I looked out the kitchen window one morning and there was this huge, hulking buff colored beast of a dog. His head was lion sized and his body as large as a mastiff. He was playing with Charles A. How this huge beast had decided that Charles A. was his buddy was beyond me. We were already feeding two dogs and bearing the cost of veterinarian and license fees for two dogs. I could envision the feed bill for such a huge beast.

“Don’t you dare feed that animal.” I gave the order to my children and to my husband. I also sent the children around the neighborhood to see if anyone knew where the beast was from. This did take some time as our neighborhood consisted of one acre or more lots as some people were raising, breeding, and racing race horses.

Oh, that’s right. I didn't mention that we also had three horses. A huge part Tennessee Walker and Thorough Bred. That was Pecos and he stood seventeen and one-half hands high. Trixie was a quarter horse, and Black Jack was a mustang from the wild horse gatherings still allowed back in the early 1970’s. Let’s not discuss the feed bill, vet bill, and tack for those animals. My husband had built a barn which was actually his workshop, but we also stored hay bales in there. Yes, I could lift and stack them back then. Spare lumber was stacked at the side of the barn. The corral then branched off the back of the barn in both directions and to the back of our property.

The huge dog refused to leave our premises and he and Charles A. continued their games. I knew the beast was getting water as the water bowls for the dogs were outside. He could also stand high enough on his back legs and brace himself on the water tank for the horses. I was, however, becoming suspicious as to where he was acquiring his food.

I heard a crash from outside and looked out the kitchen window. There was the beast with a rat in his mouth shaking it and biting down. Pet rats escaped in Phoenix and were creating a warren underneath our stacked wood. The dog had jumped onto the stack or dislodged it to get at the rat. The score? One dead rat and I named the beast Brown and fed him. When everyone returned for dinner that night, I asked, “All right, which one of you has been feeding him?”

Naturally, all three members of the family were guilty. I should have known it would be a losing battle. I was right about one thing, our feed bill for livestock went higher.

Brown had other quirks besides the fondness for Charles A. He loved to use my 1968 Chevy Impala as his bed. He would jump up on the hood and stretch out. Even when it frosted, there he was in the morning when I came out for work. He was also good at climbing trees. Brown would join our son up in the apricot tree when the harvesting was going on. He loved to go camping with us. I’m not sure about the other two, but they went. On one trip Brown killed a squirrel. He was busy guarding and eating his kill while we were ready to leave.

My husband went to urge Brown to jump up in the back of the truck and Brown growled. Lanny took one look, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Suit yourself,” and flipped up gate of the pickup. He then got into the truck with the rest of us (the rest being our daughter and me) as our son was in the back with Falina and Charles A. Lanny started the truck and we edged out far more slowly than normal. Brown looked up, looked down at the dead squirrel, jumped to his feet and ran before leaping and landing in the bed of the pickup.

“How did you know?” I had to ask.

“I figured he would. Charles A. was in the back of the pickup. It was either the squirrel or us.”

Lanny would usually exercise the horses by riding them across the desert, swing around up to Bell Road, and back again. Charles A. and Brown took to following him. For some reason Charles A. decided to test Bell Road. That was a bad decision. The cars were too fast and a small, beige dog the color of sand would not be noticed. We buried him close to the barn in the shade.

Brown hung around for about three days, a dejected, saddened creature. His friend was gone. One morning he was not there. He must have decided that Charles A. wasn't coming back. I really hope Brown found another friend before he too left this world.

Falina

She was possibly the smartest dog I’ve ever known. I cannot be certain as two of the other contenders never lived the long life that she did.

My beautiful daughter (please, every mother thinks this) possesses the ability to understand dogs and dogs return the understanding. They run to her. She was the one that would come home with the stray puppy or dog saying, “He/she just followed me. I didn’t do anything.” Right! The dog would run up to her, she would pet it, and then say, “Go home now.” Of course, they would follow her home.

We had lost our hound dog of many years to old age and advancing tumors. One of her puppies that we kept was stolen, and another pup that followed my daughter home had been hit on Cave Creek Road. That’s when my daughter and her friend showed up carrying a pup that she’d gotten somewhere. The lineage was Australian Shepherd, Collie, and coyote. At maturity, she was the size of a sheltie, but with the coloring of a full grown collie.

She had placed the puppy on the floor. The nose, head, and coloring shouted Collie. The puppy chose to lay down and cross one front foot over the other. All I could say was, “I don’t care about the other breeds, she is a Collie.”

I’m no longer sure why we chose Falina as her name. A Marty Robbins tune with that name was popular and I remembered reading that name in a story somewhere. She just seemed to have dainty, feminine ways. She rapidly became my daughter’s dog, but she wasn’t content until we were all home. For my daughter, however, she would sit, stay, lie down, shake hands, roll over, and I swear the two engaged in conversations. Falina would say “I ove you, Hullo, Mom,” and made other sounds close to human speech.

If we dared say, “There is a rabbit,” when we looked out the window, Falina would run to the door and bark like an animal possessed. If we opened the door, she would tear out of the house to chase that rabbit whether there was one or not.

The first time our daughter went on a date it was with a fellow band member. We took them to a pizza place and came home without her. Falina was miffed and stalked around the family room finally settling by the fireplace. My husband went after them after about an hour, took the boy home and returned with our daughter. Falina arose and promptly began scolding our daughter with barks. Our daughter picked her up and held her while sitting in the big recliner. Falina kept up the barks for awhile, finally sniffed, and calmed down. My husband and I were holding onto each other as we were laughing so hard.

Just before we were ready to move to another state, Falina became pregnant. One day she wouldn’t eat and was whimpering. I took a look and realized she had an infection. My husband had been out of work (one of the bust times in Phoenix), but we took her to the Veterinarian. My husband did complain about the cost of a spaying (all the pups were dead), but somehow I knew that little dog was worth it. Our children would be traumatized about moving and losing their friends. I was right. Teenagers do not adjust to moves nearly as well as younger children.

There were two other dogs during our time in Phoenix, but they will have their own story. Falina went with us when we moved to Washington State. At a rest stop in Oregon, while we walked her around she went into a coyote pose like when hunting, then pounced down on a rodent hiding in a clump of grass under the snow. It was the only time she gave any hint of being anything but collie.

Falina did not like the snow in Washington. Every time she had to go out in it she would look at me as if to say, “You expect me to my paws in that cold stuff?”

When my parents came to visit us, she took a position besides my mother’s chair and proceeded to give Mama a lengthy discourse of barks, yips, and sniffs. Mama kept looking at her and saying, “Is that so?” Finally, Falina gave one last sniff and went down beside the chair in her classic collie pose. Mama looked up and me and said, “She really told me about what she thinks of living here.”

Our daughter took Falina to high school one day during her psychology class. The teacher was expounding about Pavlov’s work with training dogs and asked if anyone could bring a dog that responded to commands. Falina went through all her “tricks.” Then my daughter said, “Now tell the class thank you.” Falina sat down and went into her little series of barks she used to talk. Then they returned to our daughter’s desk.

“Where’s the treat?” asked the instructor.

“Falina doesn’t do those things for treats. She does them because she loves me,” replied our daughter. That statement blew Pavlov’s theory and her grade for presentation.

Our son had selected a pup of his own once we were in Washington, a female German shepherd-Husky mix and promptly named her Bear Killer. Bear Killer looked like a pure bred German shepherd. The two dogs bonded. I’ll tell Bear’s story later, but when Bear had her first (and only) litter of puppies, Falina was right there helping her clean up each new born pup as it arrived. She acted like a midwife and then a doting aunt.

One winter we gave our daughter one of those imitation fur jackets that were so popular in the late 1970’s. Each time our daughter wore it, Falina would have a fit and would bark and bark until the jacket was removed.

When our daughter married and moved away, Falina was heart broken, but she finally gave up on the idea that “her girl” would return. She lived to be fourteen before her system shut down on her. The Vet even came out to our place so that she wouldn’t be distressed by carrying her in a car. He too thought Falina was one of the most intelligent dogs he had ever encountered.

I held her while the shots were administered and she went to sleep. Then my husband had to hold me while I shed a few tears. The old rayon quilt that was her favorite resting spot on the front porch became her shroud. Falina is buried there under the shade of a Scotch pine tree.

Farm Pets

There were two more dogs during my years on the farm. Everyone had fallen for Lassie. Her disposition, intelligence, and work on the farm had made her a favorite even with my father. We all decided we should have another collie.

Papa came home one day with a six-month-old Scotch Collie. At least that is what people around us called the collie dog with the black and tan markings and white chest. We, of course, called him Blackie.

My youngest brother decided that this would be “his” dog and he would turn him into a ferocious guard dog. Collie dogs have minds of their own. As far as Blackie was concerned, we were all his people and instead of being ferocious, he liked to baby sit the litter of kittens when the barn cats would produce a litter. Blackie was even better than Lassie at bringing the cows in from the pasture to the barn for milking. We would say, “Time to get the cows,” and he would lope towards the pasture. By the time we arrived there, he would have cut out the three cows Papa milked and was driving them towards the gate. He did not bother to come and greet us as we returned from school until we walked through the front gate.

Rex had ignored the puppy shenanigans, but as Blackie matured he began to teach him to roam. I’ve often wondered if Rex did that deliberately. Blackie was not clever enough to know that an irate farmer could and would shoot at strange dogs coming into their yard at night, nor did he know that a farmer could also be a good shot. The neighbor that shot Blackie did tell us and he did apologize as he thought from the size of Blackie that Blackie was a different neighbor’s dog that had been trying to dig into his hen house.

Rex did not last through the fall. The next spring, Papa brought home another dog. This one was to be an all-around farm dog. He had the most beautiful red coat like an Irish Setter, but he had the build of a very large German Shepherd. His ears were set back a bit far for a shepherd and his eyes were an amber color. Just how many breeds it must have taken to produce him was anyone’s guess. His parentage was unknown except that the bitch had been part collie and part shepherd.

I don’t know if we were more imaginative, but for this dog we picked the name of Mike. Once again my youngest brother proclaimed that this was going to be “his” dog and a ferocious guard dog. He did get the latter part right. No one dared open a car door until we were outside and had Mike firmly in hand. Mike became a good rodent killer and watch dog, but as a cattle dog he was useless other than to walk beside us and chase an occasional rabbit.

That fall when Mike turned nine months, I heard a howling outside. It was a lonesome, soulful wail followed by another. I put down my flashlight and book (yes, I was supposed to be in bed sleeping) and looked out my east window. The leaves had already fallen from the huge lilac bush up on the cave mound. There was Mike singing his heart out to the moon. Mike did his howling when the moon was full. Why he waited for the full moon, I do not know. I do know that Mike had more of the primarily feral animal reactions than other farm dogs.

We had had a fire in the back porch of our house in the late spring. The fire truck from Audubon arrived to help us and our farm neighbors trying to quell it with buckets of water. The insurance company did give Papa a check for our loss and he used the money to reroof that side of the house. Half of the back porch was gone, but a new wall and door were installed in the other part. The tale about when that house was built will be told another time.

Papa had left the ladder against the house at the back porch. The ladder would not reach the roof line, but the back porch was lower. The shingles could be hauled up there and carried around the other side to patch the roof. My brother and I could climb up there and use the roof for a perch or as my brother discovered, it could be a way to enter the house through his bedroom window.

I decided that if Rex and Lassie could learn to climb a ladder so could Mike. It took awhile, but by placing his feet on the rungs and steadying him, he over came his fear and could climb up to sit with us. The day Mama discovered red dog hair on my brother’s sheets, the ladder was removed and my brother was chastised for teaching Mike to climb up the ladder and taking a dog into the house.

As many of my followers know, I could not live in Iowa and Mama and I would go to Phoenix in time for me to start the next school year. The second winter, Papa, my brother, and Mike joined us. My brother went to my school and Papa found a job too. Mike had to be chained during the day. He was too dangerous to let loose even in a fenced yard. That meant we had to exercise him on the weekend. We would use a heavy chain when walking him. Both my brother and I were prepared to hang onto the collar and drag him back if necessary.

We decided on a walk to the South Mountains. It was about four miles or more and we knew we had walked that far in Iowa. It’s hard to believe now, but that part of South Phoenix had no homes, no industry but flower farming, and vacant land. We were tired, but close to the park when we topped dune and below us was an assortment of cardboard, wood, and tin shelters. In no way did they resemble a house. Two of the men outside of the shelters spotted us and one started towards us, his knife in hand. It was obvious that these men were not U. S. citizens and had crossed into our country illegally.

Mike lunged forward snarling, fangs bared. Both my brother and I hung onto Mike, but we didn’t scold him. At that moment we were both thankful that he was large and recognized the situation as dangerous. Then man stopped. We nodded and kept going by tugging Mike along. Once we were away from them, we praised Mike and gave him some of the dog treats we had brought along.

Mike also learned to open the screen door leading to the front porch of our farm house. He was allowed to be in that room and that room only. He opened the door by standing and putting his front feet against the jamb, reached over with his teeth and pulled the door open. He then would drop to the ground and jump through the door before it slammed shut.

Once some magazine sales people arrived when Papa was out by the front door and Mike was barking and snarling.

Papa turned to Mike and said, “Be quiet. Go in the house and lay down.”

Mike obediently stood, opened the screen door and went into the house. The men stood there opened mouth. No, they didn’t make any sales that day.

The only date I brought to the house that Mike did not growl at and need restraining was a young man that had a far more vicious dog. His dog would bite anyone that came close except for this young man. His dog would even try to bite the young man’s mother is she tried to feed him.

Mike guarded us all. Even my brother and family that lived in Council Bluffs, and my college attending brother whenever he was home. Somehow Mike knew they were family and belonged to us.

A collie named Lassie

Several blogs ago, I promised more about our pets on the farm. I had mentioned Lassie, but how difficult it is to write about her.

Her parentage was beagle and collie. Her face and coloring was like a collie dog’s, but her hair was short and smooth like a beagle. She was one of the most intelligent dogs we had. She could follow any command we gave her and she would “talk” with us. We would take her with us when we went after the cows for milking. During the spring and summer, the milk cows would be out in a pasture, not in the barnyard or barn during snows and freezing weather. It was a practice that small farmers used to have some use out of fallow fields. This was ground they let rest from crop growing. Children would be sent to bring the milk cows in. Papa did not keep a bull, but would pay a neighbor for services of their bull or later, he would call the veterinarian and arrange for artificial insemination.

By the time Lassie was nine months old, she knew which three cows we wanted out of those in the pasture, and would help gather them. Sometimes Rex, the Spitz dog, would come along, but he had no interest in cows except for the milk they gave.

Lassie would wait for my youngest brother and me to return home from school. She’d sit at the top of the bank overlooking the road. When she saw us coming around the bend, she would run to the open kitchen window and bark at Mama and then run down the lane to greet us. She would prance around us all the way up the lane. After we went into the house to change (Mama insisted we wear the same clothes to school all week), she would run to the kitchen window again to announce that she had done her escort duty.

At nine months she came into heat and it soon became apparent that she would have a litter of puppies. As the gestation period neared the end, she disappeared. My brother and I searched and called for her to no avail. Mama tried to reassure us that Lassie had only prepared a “nest” some place to have her puppies.

The next morning after we had gone to school, Lassie appeared at the kitchen window barking furiously. Mother went out to see what was wrong. Lassie nudged her and ran toward the barnyard. Mama said she started to return to the house, when Lassie was back at her side, barking and then running toward the gate again. Mama decided to follow her.

Lassie led mother to the tool shed, a small building attached to the garage, and around to the West side. She disappeared underneath. There were four puppies in her nest. She lay down beside them and looked up at Mama. Mama described her look as saying, “See, look what I did.”

That afternoon she did not greet us, but we took her food bowl to set beside the water dish Mama had moved there and exclaim over her beautiful puppies. We had no difficulty in farming out those puppies as everyone knew Lassie was a cattle dog and Rex a fine ratter and mouser.

Lassie had one beagle trait. She loved to hunt rabbits. Of course, she never caught any we thought. Everyone knows a rabbit can outrun a dog or turn in such short circles the dog continues running one way and the rabbit another.

That was until one day a jackrabbit had the audacity to come right through the open part of the barnyard between the chicken house, washhouse, fenced front yard, and the garage/tool shed. Lassie took after it without barking. The jackrabbit did a turn at the cottonwood tree and headed back towards the lane. Lassie turned equally as rapid and was right on his tail. The rabbit executed another turn near the garage to run back up the hill when Lassie managed to leap forward and grab his back leg. That was the end of poor Jackrabbit. Rex was delighted. He knew she would share the spoils.

The next year Lassie had another litter of pups, but these she had in the barn as it was winter and too cold for little ones to be out in an Iowa cold snap. Rex once again stalked around like a king, but this time he circled too close to the puppies. Lassie lunged at him snarling and nipping. Rex slunk away with a baffled look on his face. Once again we found homes for the pups.

That spring, while it was still chilly, but the snow and ice gone, my parents decided to visit my oldest brother and his family in Council Bluffs. As usual, Papa had us up and out of the house before three a.m. for the approximately eighty mile drive. We spent the day there and returned home in the late afternoon by five or six p.m. We were startled when neither Rex nor Lassie were there to greet us. Rex, we assumed, was roaming again. My brother and I went upstairs to put on our work clothes when my father could be heard coming in the front. His voice carried all the way up the stairs.

“Where are the kids?”

“They are upstairs changing,” Mama answered.

“Don’t let them come outside until I say it’s all right. Lassie must have been waiting for them and started down the road. She’s in the ditch. One of the big trucks hit her.”

The door banged and we could hear Mama crying. I knew we would never find another dog as smart.

Farm Life

Both of my parents were capable of working from dawn to dusk and often did. There would be long days of plowing, planting, and harrowing (weed removal) in the fields. The garden, orchard, and strawberry patch all demanded intensive work time and the weed removal would be by a hoe worked by the younger members of the family. It would be a constant battle between new plants and weeds.

Harvest time for fruit could start in June with the June apples. Hay fields and oat fields were also a source of early harvest usually starting in July. That always depended on when the fields could be worked in the springtime. I remember a frost and snow falling on the first day of May. That year did delay the harvest.

The farmers would take time to enjoy life too. Winter might close us in, but that never lasted more than a couple of days while I was growing up and we worked puzzles, read, or played board games.

The church always had a spring festival and a harvest festival. My parents would play pinochle at home or with neighbors and relatives. For awhile they were in a rotating group that played once a month at different farm homes. The pot was never huge as a nickel was all that they allowed each player to bet. They also allowed a bet on the meld. Those games would become intense. People like my father, my oldest sister-by-marriage, and her father could and did remember every card played or melded. Children were not allowed to play, but we could watch. One evening I’ll always remember. It looked like someone was about to win when the last card was put down by my sister-in-law’s father. He slammed the card on the heavy, golden oak table yelling, “And trump!” The force of his hand connecting with the table broke his little finger. That ended the evening’s game.

Another past-time was the dances held at peoples home or at the Memorial Building in Audubon. At that time, the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod affiliated churches were condemning all dances. If one (or two) of the congregation were seen dancing and reported to the Pastor, they would have to apologize to the entire congregation the next Sunday. I always wondered why that prohibition was adopted until I knew enough of the history of the piety movement in this country during the 1880’s through early 1900. The man credited with starting the Reformation enjoyed dancing.

The first dance I remember going to with my parents was either in a hall or someone’s huge home. I was only about four so it may not have been as huge as I remember. Chairs of all kind were arranged around the room against three walls. One wall was left for the band to play. The band consisted of my oldest brother (on the guitar and piano accordion) and his friends. My brother was also the lead singer. He probably had that position as he had a tenor voice and could yodel. They played mostly western and German music. I really didn't think that evening was much fun as there was no one to dance with me. I remember sprawling out on two chairs and going to sleep.

There were other dances at farm homes, but by then I was older and joined the older ones playing Blind Man’s Bluff or other games. Sometimes my Papa or brother would dance once with me. When we moved to the farm near Audubon, my parents would go the Farm Bureau meetings and dances at the Memorial Building. The music was generally what the world calls oompah. It was fascinating to watch my parents waltz, polka and do the schottische. I felt awkward the few times I danced with Papa.

They continued to love dancing. When rock and roll came in, they didn't exactly rock the way I did, but they definitely jazzed up their dancing. They loved going out on the town when they wintered in Phoenix. People would watch the two of them twirling on the dance floor and executing turns and whirls.

Mama had a heart attack when she was seventy-four years old. That ended her dancing days, but my parents did not sit at home just watching television. They went fishing all over Iowa. Papa did not like fishing in Arizona. The fish he liked tasted “muddy” there and it cost too much to pay for the license. He preferred to have the Iowa license for the fish he liked to eat. Mama didn't care as long as she went fishing.

A Dog Named Rex

Rex was not the only dog we had on the farm, but he was the longest lived. His mother was a rat terrier named Spot that lived out in the barn. I was five-years-old when Spot delivered two puppies. Somehow a neighbor’s Spitz dog had gotten to her. We weren't allowed out in the barnyard (that didn't happen for me until summer). I begged and begged until Papa brought the two puppies inside for a visit over my mother’s objections. Dogs, according to her, did not belong in the house even if they were six weeks old and we had found a home for the one that resembled Spot.

Of course, Rex did what puppies do. The resulting mess was right there on Mama’s clean kitchen floor.

“You wanted them in here. You clean it up.” She handed me a pail of soapy water and a rag. I promptly vomited adding to the mess. I still remember Mama looking at me with horrified brown eyes moaning, “You’ll never be a nurse,” her ambition for me. She was correct. I’m a terrible nurse and never pursued the profession.

I do not remember too much about that winter or the next. I was dreadfully ill, but I’m not the subject. I remember when I came out of one illness, Rex was only dog. He was as good a rodent catcher as his mother. He couldn't catch the squirrels though and would sit at the foot of the eucalyptus tree and bark for fifteen minutes. If one of my older brothers did not appear with our twenty-two, he went in search of other prey.

We moved the spring I as eight to our own farm. The place had been vacant for a number of months and was overrun with varmints, including skunks. Poor Rex. He learned quickly that that was one rodent he should not attempt to kill. He went down to the creek and came back soaking wet and still reeking. He looked so embarrassed at making a stupid mistake. He would not come near us for a week.

Papa used traps (larger ones from his trapping days) to rid us of the skunks and regular traps for the rats and mice. Rodents were always a problem on the farm.

Rex was about two years old when he began having seizures. Other farmers would have disposed of him and procured another dog. Not Papa and Mama. No one took him to the veterinarian as that profession was to my parents for the animals that worked, those sold for profit, or raised for meat.

Rex turned out to be a roamer and fighter. Neighbors would tell of seeing him, but they couldn't aim well enough to stop him. Rex was not permitted in the house in his early years.

When Rex was about four, Papa brought home a part collie, part beagle mix bitch to someday replace Rex and to help bring in cattle. She was smooth-haired like a beagle, but her features were collie. We, of course, named her Lassie. Rex immediately became the alpha male dog, but Lassie was the alpha female, and she was smart, perhaps one of the smartest dogs we had, but she has her own story.

By the time Lassie was a year old, there were puppies; beautiful puppies. She had them in the barn. Rex made the mistake of getting too close and learned that perhaps he wasn't as alpha as he thought. He looked so disappointed.

About this time there seemed to be an invasion of badgers. Mama worried about Rex being hurt as he backed off from nothing or no animal. My uncle would not get out of his car if we were not home and Uncle had a St. Bernard. Papa saw one of the badgers heading under the corn crib and Rex right behind the creature. Rex would have been no match, but Papa had the pitchfork and pinned the badger. In a few minutes Rex emerged triumphant, but his left ear was torn and somehow a spot on his back.

When Papa repaired the roof over the garage, he left the ladder leaning against it. My brother and/or I would climb up there to read, to see all the land around us, and sometimes just to be out of sight. The first time we went up there, we looked around and Rex appeared and scrambled up on the roof and sat beside us. We thought he was incredibly intelligent.

One day I watched Rex head down to the creek near our windmill. He sat there waiting and looking back at the hill every few minutes. I was up in the cotton tree reading and would glance at him and wonder whether he had something trapped, but he wasn't barking. Three larger dogs came loping down the hill that ran along side of the road and crossed underneath the barb wire fence. Rex stood and they greeted each other as long time companions. Then they stood looking at each other as though they were communicating. I called for Rex to come home. He did look up to where I was, and I swear it looked like he shrugged. Then he took off across the fields with the other dogs running behind him. Any time someone tells me that dogs have no sense of timing and/or not capable of communicating, I tell them of this episode of Rex and his friends.

Somehow over the years, Rex had wormed his way into Mama’s heart and she would let him inside, but no further than the daybed in our dining room. That room actually functioned as a family room. It was right off the kitchen and furnished with a huge round table and chairs, desk, daybed, radio table, Papa’s rocking chair, magazine rack, and her plants and some of her knickknacks on separate stands.

I mentioned the seizures earlier. As Rex aged, the seizures came more frequently. One day he did not come out of it as usual, and Papa used the twenty-two rifle. We buried him by the cherry tree.

His legacy had not ended. Our neighbors upon hearing his demise brought over a male puppy. He was a large sized rat terrier. It seems Rex had visited that farm. Mama immediately named him Tuffy. Tuffy was her dog and somehow had the privilege of being in her house.

A Horse Named Betty

I had started a blog about the pets that impacted my life through the years. That document rapidly became far too long. I’m going to concentrate on as individuals, starting with the longest lived one who wasn't brought to the farm as a pet, but as a work horse.

Betty was not as large as some farm horses. She was part Morgan and part Quarter Horse. She did have the wide massive chest of the Morgan breed, but her hind quarters were more like the Quarter horse of a century ago. She was coal black except for the white blaze running down her face.

Papa must have bought her in 1936 or 1937. It soon became apparent why the price had been so reasonable. When they released her in the field she gave a demonstration of the wildest bucking bronco ever featured in a movie theater. Rodeos were never big in the Midwest until much later. Most of the farmers assumed a horse like that would be dangerous, and/or ruin equipment or the barn. Whenever Papa harnessed her, she more than pulled her weight, often outdoing the larger Percheron or Clydesdale breeds.

My oldest brother decided to break her to ride. Rein was the athletic one, the one that could tap dance up and down the stairs, jump on a chair and off and never miss a tap. He did not have a saddle. All he had was the bridle from her harness. That meant he had to hang onto her mane to stay on her while she bucked upward and downward. Both of my parents in later years while recounting his feat, mentioned that he had blood coming from his nose and from his ears when Betty stopped bucking and let him ride her.

She would still buck out in the pasture, but both of my older brothers rode her. When she was in the barn she loved to be curried and she knew there would be the special allotment of oats, corn, and wheat that my father ground for horse feed.

Betty did have an instinct for what was needed while working the fields and became Papa’s favorite horse over the years. She did have one trick that would set him off. My father possessed a voice that would project. He never swore around women or children, but when it was corn harvesting time his voice could be heard from the fields. He would set the wagon to go down the rows of corn and the horses would move when commanded while he picked the ears and tossed them up into the wagon. While still at home, Rein would be the extra hand helping with the picking and tossing. Later it would be me. Betty, however, wouldn't wait for the command. When she felt the time needed to pick was sufficient she would move forward dragging the other horse and wagon with her. Back at the farmhouse or garden, we could hear every curse word my father would yell at them. He used English rather than German because English words were stronger and more varied.

When I was five and my youngest brother was four, we were allowed to go with them as both my older brothers were home and could help keep an eye on us. It was a beautiful fall day, warm and fresh, the smell of earth, sky, and corn enveloped us in the field. After one-half hour of starting, stopping, hearing the plop of ears landing in the wagon, Betty started sooner than wanted. I let rip with every word I had heard from the fields. Time stopped.

My father turned beet red, my little brother was looking at me with awed brown eyes, Rein was doubled over laughing, and Norman was sputtering and laughing in short yelps. Then Papa began laughing. It was too much. I stomped home.

Mama looked at me as I marched into the kitchen. “Why are you here?”

“They laughed at me.” I fled up to my room. Yes, I had the lecture about WORDS.

It was about a year later that Papa decided that Molly, the Clydesdale, was growing older and had a stallion brought over to service Betty for a colt to eventually replace Molly. I, of course, wanted to see the mating. That didn't happen. “It’s too violent,” my mother sniffed. I decided it would have to remain a mystery. We all heard Betty’s screams from the barnyard. Almost a year later, Betty produced one of the prettiest roan horses I have ever seen. We named her Ginger for the unique color she sported. My youngest brother and I were even permitted to taste mare’s milk. It was far too sweet for my taste.

Molly lived about six months after Ginger had taken her place in the harness. As my brother and I grew older we would curry the two horses while they were in their stalls munching on hay and grain. We pet them and even brought special treats like carrots or apples from the garden. My youngest brother claimed Ginger because of her looks. I choose Betty because she seem to like me best and would nuzzle at my neck.

We must have been about eleven and ten when two of the neighbors bought ponies for their children to ride to our country school. We would ride them during lunch hour. Of course, we begged our father for a pony. Not our old-fashioned father. He refused to have an animal that wasn't “useful.” It was a waste of grain and food. We had heard the tales of Betty bucking and were reluctant to mount her.

Finally, it was too much. I took her out of the barn and mounted her. I even forget how I managed that without a saddle. I probably used the water tank or a crate. I picked up the reins and said, “Giddyap.” She started off with a nice smooth gait and I rode her down the lane and around the curve to a dirt road that no one used anymore. Then I turned her around toward home.

She took off at a gallop. It was all I could do to hang on and pray that the Dutch door to the horse stalls was open. She cleared the step up through the door with a smooth leap and waited patiently for me to dismount. There was no taking her out again that day as she refused. After that we were clever enough to close the barn door when we took her out.

Papa complained that we were making “pets” out of his horses, but he never said we could not ride Betty. Ginger we did not try to ride as that was forbidden. Papa did buy a modern tractor, but he still used his horses for planting corn and for the last harrow through the cornfield to dislodge weeds as the tractor would have squashed the immature plants.

Ginger died before Betty. Papa did not buy another horse, but put Betty “out to pasture” and would bring her to the barn when necessary. She fooled everyone and lived to be twenty-eight years old. We were all in Phoenix when the letter came from my Uncle Oscar that Betty had died in the fields. Mama put her head on the table and cried.

Family Lore

Henry and Otto were two of my father’s cousins. Neither ever married and they “batched” together on a farm. I do not remember meeting Otto, but I do remember Henry when we visited other relatives. He was dark-haired and stocky like so many Iowa farmers.

During harvest, they would need help on the farm as they had no sons. They took in welfare boys during harvest time. This was one hundred years ago and other people considered it a kindness. One Halloween the two brothers instructed their charges how to dismantle a buggy and reconstruct it atop the barn of a man who had the indecency to refer to the younger ones as “charity brats.”

One boy slipped, rolled off the barn, and broke his arm. Henry and Otto took the boy to a doctor and then gave him a home for two more years to make sure the arm had healed properly.

Cousin Henry once had such a run-in with Pastor S. over the extra bags of grain taken by the Pastor. This was one of the terms of payment for the Pastor's salary: bags of grain for the pastor’s horses. Henry proceeded to describe the Pastor’s ancestry in crude, earthy language. The two men did not speak for years.

Otto passed away many years before Henry. This meant that Henry had to approach the Pastor for the funeral service and arrangements for his younger brother.

Pastor looked at him and said. “Since it is for Otto, I’ll do it, but if it were you, Henry, I would not.”

Henry’s reply was brief. “Vell, I tell you, Pastor, if it vere me, I vouldn’t ask you.”

Papa never knew why or exactly how Henry once came into the possession of another man’s coat. He did say that Henry felt it was a fair payment for work done and kept the coat. The man hired a lawyer. The lawyer must have felt a judge might render a verdict that the coat was fair payment for the work Henry had done. He invited Henry to dinner to discuss the matter and asked Henry to bring the coat.

The lawyer’s cook was famous for her elaborate meals. Henry accepted, but he wore the coat and kept it on. It was a warm, September evening. The lawyer had every stove blazing and every lamp lit to intensify the heat. Henry happily ate his way through every delicacy and drank almost a large pot of steaming, hot coffee. He would nod his head or mutter in German in answer to every utterance and argument the lawyer made. The fur, full-length coat remained securely around his body. As Henry left, he did have one last remark in perfect English.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Heh, heh.”

Perhaps Henry’s most bizarre appearance occurred without his knowledge. My father woke one night to see Henry ride into the bedroom on a white horse.

“Is it me, Henry?” he asked.

“No, Gus, not this time. It’s me.” With those words, both he and the horse vanished.

Two days later, one of my Uncle’s called to tell my parents that Henry had died in his sleep two nights before.