This is My Human Herman

THIS IS MY HUMAN HERMAN ( A Legacy Story)

It was a cute Father's Day gift from our son. Actually it was "personalized matching companion shirts" for my hubby and his new greyhound Buddy. The dog's shirt said, "This is my Human Herman" and my husband's said "This is My Dog Buddy".

As much as I enjoyed the gift, the sentiment and the thought, I have to say it made me think about my husband, my human Herman. I went over so much in my mind including the memory of the trip for his 65th birthday two years ago. He and our son went to Oklahoma to see the Sooner's play at Norman Stadium . They joined up with friends, old high school buddies of my husband, and spent a couple of additional days telling the old stories of the" good old days".

Following the trip, his buddies drew my attention to the fact our son seemed completely surprised at the stories they recounted about their high school and early college age activities. Our son could not believe the stories they told could be about his "straight arrow, conservative school teacher father". They had regaled him with stories of a flirtatious, take no prisoners athlete who was known to "imbibe", sometimes a little too much.

I had to remember that my children were approximately two, four and six when we moved to Iowa. Between college and Iowa had been his first teaching position in western Kansas for five years. Moving to Iowa was a turning point in our lives and our younger daughter's illness was the catalyst. Obtaining needed health care was the determining factor. We arrived in Iowa starting literally from square one. No jobs, no home and no money. For the first few months, we even moved in with my parents to stabilize the finances until we found work. Clearing out his retirement from the teaching position he just left would help with most of that financial burden.

Thinking of our son's reaction to learning about his father as a young person made me begin to think of all the ways my husband had changed. After Kansas, he had assumed all the responsibilities for the family and seeing our daughter through her recovery. The children would never know the fun loving and practical joker guy I did. Our daughter's catastrophe health needs would have a sobering effect on him which would not fade in the ongoing years. Our children would come to know and love him as the most serious coach and teacher; someone you could always count on and would be there for you. But serious.

In Iowa his entire summers would be devoted to spending time with the children and doing the child care so I could help by working. I worked afternoon shifts when I got my nursing degree and he taught days. The contrast to Kansas was that much of the time I had been a stay at home mom but, in Iowa I returned to school for nursing then went to work. In Iowa we would spend all the free time together but it wasn't the same.

Here are some observations I would like to share for those who now know my straight laced no nonsense husband and never knew his fun loving counter part he seemingly left behind.

His first teaching job straight out of college was wonderful. Certainly the highlight of his professional life and the time and place he had the most interaction with personal friends. Known as a practical joker he was apt to do or pull anything on anyone at anytime.

He would welcome new teachers in unconventional ways. I remember his welcome to two new single female teachers who were living together. He initiated them into the security of living in a small town by sneaking over to their house after setting up a mindset of fear . He then went peaking in their windows with a nylon over his head and a hat pulled down low. I would not have blamed them for shooting him but I was there "visiting" with them just in case.

Another time he invited several friends and their spouses over to our house for a cookout. By coincidence he had hauled something to the dump outside of town earlier that day. Apparently a local grocer had to dump a lot of meat due to a freezer breaking down. My husband collected the t-bone steaks and sirloins still partially frozen and brought them home.

He cooked the steaks with great flair and every one's eyes were big and mouths were watering. Of course, they had no idea it was "dumped meat" . At the end of the process he put the steaks on a platter and relined the grill with hot dogs and burgers. Then, one by one, he began to feed the steaks to our Great Dane, Shadow. They were aghast. Of course, all was duly revealed.

And then there was the story of our Great Dane, Shadow, and how he came to live with us. We were barely holding our heads above water financially at that point, but my husband who had always promised us a dog ,knew we wanted a real Great Dane . His mom had told me stories of his childhood Great Dane, Ricky . It was Rickey who whetted my husband's desire for such a dog for our family. It was also Rickey who once sneaked into his folks cafe just before serving time at noon and took out the backdoor with a newly cooked rolled roast. That probably accounted for why we read the Marmaduke comics religiously and dreamed of the day we would have our own "Marmaduke".

My hubby saw an ad for a "Murrow" Great Dane. This was a first generation blue and black cross Great Dane. It cost $50 and to us that was a huge amount. But, he wanted it to complete our family and my husband "threw caution to the wind" and drove to meet the sellers about seventy five miles from our house. He came home with this beautiful three month old pup that stole our hearts away.

Shadow turned out to be a blessing in disguise. When our youngest daughter became ill with seizures Shadow would stay by her side. If she had a seizure during the night he would come to get us. He became so instinctive, he could actually anticipate her seizures and alert us. We thought he was magical. Today, research would identify him as a candidate for a "seizure therapy dog".

To those who know only the fiscally conservative side of my husband, the purchase of a dog with all extraneous expenses would have surprised them. But, back then that was my man. Determined to be the good dad and create the "American family" and it's dream for us, he had become a risk taker on our behalf.

Remember I mentioned that cookout that took place at our house. About that house. It was such a story. First we had rented for the entirety of our married life. Like everyone else we dreamed of having a house of our own someday but,we believed it was to be in the future. My husband was making a whopping $4600 a year (before taxes) because he also coached two sports . Our budget was $300 a month for all expenses. With paying off student loans, medical bills and with me pregnant with number three, that was a dream that was not coming anytime soon.

Did I say soon? Imagine my surprise, no stunned amazement, when one day my husband walked into our rented two bedroom house, and announced, "I just bought us a house".

First I had to absorb the idea that we were looking for a house. There had been little discussion beyond the usual talk like any couple about "someday". Then I had to get past the, "I bought", because that sounded finished and done. Not like "I found a place to look at".

In the evenings' confusion of the kids' activities and making supper, I tried to take it all in. Later, we attempted to discuss his revelation with me trying to be upbeat and positive. If he was really telling the truth and not teasing, I was excited but scared. Where was it? What was it like? How could we pay for it as we barely made our $65 a month rent as it was? (That was a lot for us and for our budget). Living in the northwest corner of Kansas all food had to be trucked in to the isolated community and food was sky high as well as utilities.

Trying to be calm and sound enthusiastic I began to ask those simple things like, "Where is it?" In a small town like ours I must know the place. He told me and gave me the address but it wasn't familiar. He indicated it was north and west of where we lived at the time.

I forged on, "How many bedrooms?" Eyes averted he answered "Two, I think". It was the "think "part that caught my attention. "Well, when you go in is there an entry or are you just in the living room?"

"Well, you enter from a back porch and you're in the kitchen."

Blankly, I looked at him trying to picture how this could be. And why would you enter from the back porch? Suddenly my usually quiet husband began a rush of explanations. I picked up, "It will be cheaper for us and we could use the extra to pay it off sooner", and "there are several acres and it used to be like a park". "There are two other buildings on the property with a small house and a small barn."

"In town? A barn in town?"

"Not exactly a barn but it's a tile building and has a cement floor and we could have chickens there."

"In town?" I was definitely lost and confused now. "Where did you say this was?"

Famous last words were spoken by him. "Don't worry honey, I'm buying it from the preacher that owns it. It will be okay. If there was any problem, he would let us know."

I think here I'll just jump to the actual house and the good features that eventually came about. In truth, it was "in town" as he had stated, and within walking distance of the school where he taught. He could leave the car at home for me to run errands with the children which was a definite plus.

To this day in my minds eye ,I see him walking out the back door holding our oldest daughter's hand her first day of kindergarten. They walked together each day and she had been living for the moment she could go to school with her daddy. She remains a daddy's girl today. Her commitment to his belief in the importance of getting a good education to further your generation's opportunities (his favorite speech)was begun during those highly anticipated walks, In later years he would reinforce that belief during rides to school with her dad.

My first view of this marvelous house was a real shocker. (Yes, he'd already agreed and bought the house and buildings with six acres for $5400.) We were to pay $48 a month until it was paid of, and of course taxes and all expenses. I wasn't seeing the "savings" part.

I had planned in my daydreams to have the proverbial house with the white picket fence and roses everywhere . The property I beheld on my first visit was far from the dream. Being hormonal and almost due to deliver our number three child, I kept telling myself it wasn't as bad as I thought. It must have potential and it was important that my husband had wanted us to have a family home. For him it was about the land. No more living on Main street as he had when he grew up.

Now I can spin this either way. I could dazzle you with the fact that as you pull up to the property and turn in the drive, on the left was at least half an acre of rock garden terraces. These were filled with; moss roses,chicks and hens (little cabbage looking plants )and rows of tulips and daffodils. Two beautiful apple trees centered the view of the gardens. The garden spanned the length of the drive and bordered a small two room house. The house was built half underground with just windows and roof showing. It also bordered by the space where we would eventually put our vegetable garden that summer. Another ten feet on the left was the large tile building with large garage doors.

Spanning the depth of a city block behind our house was at least five acres of terraced land . It had been planted with a repetitive pattern of beautiful greenery. First were rows of Walnut trees in a line, bordered by lilac bushes. Bordering each of the lilac rows were some terraced rows of purple, yellow or white iris. Between each segment of landscaped rows would be a small walking path. In all, there were eight or ten of these formally planted rows. If you followed the small walking paths going north and south you could meander between the different segments. If you followed the path going down the hill on the north end of the terrace, it gently took you down to a big meadow which abutted our property and led to a creek.

The entire property had huge shade trees of varying kinds and the house sat on the only level part of the property. On the right side of the house it had a quick slope to a flat land where we put our barbecue. The hand made grill was made of a metal barrel split length wise, topped with a large metal grill (actually old oven racks from long discarded stoves). This area was perfect for the children to play in the shade and my kitchen window looked over the area allowing some additional security when the children were outside. I always had dreams that someday they would have a swing set there.

Let me take you on a tour to give equal spin to "reality". You drive in and are greeted with a rock terrace garden with two buildings on the left. If you kept driving ,the drive would turn left at the tile building and take you up the hill and out by another road. At that end of the drive sat the church where the pastor and his wife lived in their parsonage . Located at the same end of that drive and across from the parsonage was a spooky looking old house inhabited by two sisters in their seventies.

If, however, you didn't drive on through but stopped, our house was on your right.It was bordered by the quick slope and large meadow and creek. There, I told you the positives and I mean all the positives.

Upon leaving the car you have to enter the house through what was then, an enclosed back porch (plywood on studs, no insulation of sheet rock inside). It turns out it was been a very old house ready for demolition. The house, sitting on some farm land, was going to be torn down to make way for the owners to build something modern.
The pastor and his wife, hating to have anything go to waste, got it free. Their only expense was to have it moved into town. It was set on this land behind the church because "someday they might want to retire and would have to leave the parsonage". The only improvements the pastor had made was to have a church member add stucco to the outside and put some asphalt shingles on the little back porch.

Remember in the movies how the groom carries you over the threshold. We were spared that by the fact we'd been married a number of years, I was almost nine months pregnant so our entrance into the house was "cautious". We walked onto the back porch which had no lock. Immediately there was an old fashioned house door with the window on top allowing you to see directly into the kitchen. The doorknob required an old skeleton key to open it. Of course it wasn't locked either as in that town, there was no need. And there was no skeleton key.

Peering into the kitchen, I saw that he had been right about it being the "center of the house" and the "entry". I was somewhat relieved to see the kitchen had a small patterned wall paper in white and gold and the woodwork and cabinets were all painted white. Definitely old fashioned and country type kitchen but, roomy. There was an old fashioned kitchen sink and on the far wall sat a three foot high gas stove for warmth. A hook up for our small donated apartment size cook stove was located near the sink. We would find a used fridge somewhere.

My husband moved ahead to open the door saying "watch your step". Now he meant it to be a comment of social courtesy but as I looked down to step in, and check to see if there was any kind of doorstep, I saw there was a gap between the back porch and the kitchen.I could literally see the dirt under the house. My nerves sent red flags up throughout my whole system.

We continued in without me commenting. He went on to the living room which was open to the kitchen through an archway. It had the now familiar "carpet" of blue lines of threaded shag that every poor person of that day used for wall to wall carpet. (No padding underneath). There was wall paper on the living room imitating knotty pine wood. It resembled the paneling you get today with the fake pine wood pattern on it.

The two windows in the corner of the living room were bare. The beautiful trees and terraced lilacs and "park" area could be seen and appreciated through the glass and oddly it relieved my sense of panic. That is, until I realized that by the windows was that elusive missing front door which I found opened to a six foot drop off. There was no porch. It just dropped straight down to the level area which would eventually become the play area. We'd have to block that or lose a child. And I could see it as real threat to my sleep walking husband.

Off the living room was a bedroom with two windows which looked out onto the same park like view. The small closet was about four feet wide. When you opened the closet door there was a single rod and you could see up into the rafters of the attic.

I retreated back to the kitchen and looked at the door by the gas stove. I opened it to find a small bathroom just large enough for the tub, toilet and sink. A very small spice door opened to shelves of wood that had been placed against the original lathe with it's plaster seams exposed. Hmmmmmm. It was nerve racking and I was realizing once again, it was a done deal.

Another door in the kitchen led to a small bedroom with one big window which overlooked the drive. The view there was of the rock terrace and the small underground house. The wall paper had been an old blue and beige tweed print that was faded beyond belief. The trim in the room was a dull dark gray beige and looked pretty dismal. It was very dark with only a single light bulb hanging down from the ceiling.

I really had only one thought at that point. My husband was thrilled. He loved having the land and was already busily planning a garden and future improvements. Wasn't it the wife's job to make the home habitable and charming? Shouldn't I be grateful to be a "home owner" and no longer a gypsy renter?

And about that picket fence I wanted,well, there were lots of tree saplings. He said he would take them and make a fence with them. "That shouldn't cost anything" he encouraged," and it would be rustic, like the house". Couldn't argue that one.

A fast forward overview was this. Within a month we had settled in and our number three child had arrived. With her arrival came a visit from my mother to help out. She took one look at the house and said it had good land and had"potential". That was the good news. The bad news was that when she visited next, she had stopped by the Sears paint department and bought enough clearance paint for the exterior of the house. She felt new paint would make it look "fresh and pretty". My husband, as always, supported her vision and the fact it was free.

I do think however, he took just a moment to collect himself when he saw the color. It was absolutely and definitely the color of French's mustard. Though some called it "baby poop yellow" and I couldn't disagree. The best we could do was add white trim to try to calm it down. Though we were polite and expressed appreciation to her, there was only pure luck that she wasn't there when my in laws came. Their reaction was derision and non stop comments. For once, I agreed with them.

True to his word my husband did make many changes to the house though funds were limited. He built in the back porch converting it to a laundry room (So yes, technically you now came in to our house through the laundry room and then into the kitchen. It would be a long term plan to make a deck and porch to route traffic to the "drop off door" in the livingroom. He also added two more very small bedrooms just off the kitchen. We had to move some kitchen cabinets to make that doorway possible but that only enhanced the kitchen and made him feel like a master carpenter.

We had a few gifts along the way from his parents which changed the place dramatically. My mother-in-law brought us chickens. Not just any chickens but, some that laid blue and green eggs. The children were thrilled.

Shortly after our third child was born, I developed mastitis in both breasts. It became such an overwhelming infection they had to hospitalize me. With a six week old baby to feed at home my doctor announced to my husband I would no longer be able to breast feed her. Dumbfounded ,my husband ask what he could do. The doctor pulled out a prescription pad and wrote down some formula choices on it.

When he handed it to my husband the question was asked, "Which formula would be closest to real mother's milk? She has always breast fed the kids and I want the best".

Clearly my doctor did not yet know my husband or he would have been more cautious instead of flippant. He offered, "Well, the next best thing to mother's milk is fresh goats milk, but since you don't have that and couldn't afford it canned, anyone of those would do".

Of course, ever the family man, I came home from the hospital to be greeted by Becky. Our first goat. She was a beautiful, fresh, white Sanian goat who gave a gallon of milk a day. Plenty for all of us. Of course, that added to the wifely duties. I had to milk her.

I learned if you don't keep a Billy goat on the place, (they are the ones that foul smell), the milk doesn't have the odor people talk about. In fact, it's rich tasting and easily digested. Later, when one of the doctors in town got stomach cancer, he bought milk from us. We eventually had more goats and bought some goats to butcher. Their t-bones only have about three bites and the roasts are small, but we even fooled my father-in-law with my "beef" stew. We could pass it off as Grade A Beef.

So there we were in our first "surprise" home ; with three children, a Great Dane, chickens, goats and various neighboring critters including the occasional skunk. Those were the happiest days for my husband. Had we had time and money probably we could have done something with the property but, as it was ,when we'd find a problem there was never extra to fix it.

For instance, remember the gas stove in the kitchen. Not the cooking stove. The gas stove that stood about three feet high? That was the heat for the entire house. Guess how we learned that. Right. It got cold and it occurred to us we needed to turn on the heat. Imagine the "heated" discussion when we discussed that. And take in to account we lived in the community that was the warmest community in the state of Kansa in the summer and the coldest in the winter.

It was during that time of discovery that a comment my husband had made when first telling me about the house really sunk in. The comment had been made about "buying the house almost sight unseen". It turns out when the preacher invited him to see the house there were people talking in the kitchen. My husband didn't want to interrupt so he just stood on the back porch and looked inside. He had never even been in that house until we went in together. Hence, the reason he couldn't adequately answer my original questions about the house and it's layout. I had foolishly written it off to being a "guy thing" that he couldn't remember.

There were some memorable times in that house. Like the time he gave me roses. Literally. He had members of his football team come up to help him plant several bushes. He had heard about a "perfect way to make roses grow for years". You dug a deep hole; put in some gravel, a layer of dirt, some metal that would rust (providing iron),more dirt, banana peels, more dirt and keep layering up. Then, put the rose bush in and cover with rich soil. As the years pass, these things would deteriorate and provide a natural long time sustaining "natural food" for the bushes.

I got to enjoy the team laughing and horsing around eating a huge amount of bananas to provide the peels for our project. I even got to arm wrestle a couple of them as I was unusually strong from milking goats. It really builds up the arms. Yes, I beat a couple of his ball players and my husband loved it. He also loved shaming them just a little.

These were some of the same students who played ball for my husband and are credited with finally potty training my son. It wasn't that my son didn't know not to pee his pants or that he couldn't come in from the yard and use the bathroom, he just was "too busy". He preferred not to take the time away from play. With a new baby, this was frustrating and my patience was at an end. Spanking seemed like the good solution but even that didn't work. I feared beating him would have been the next step in my state of failure and exhaustion so I wrestled in my mind to find a solution.

One thing he loved to do was go to daddy's football practices and games. He absolutely thought he should be allowed to play but, at three years old, it wasn't possible. I would try to bribe him saying if he didn't wet himself, we'd go to see daddy's team play. There were days we would go to see the games as a reward proving he could control the wetting when he chose. One night at the field I had a brilliant idea which I carefully didn't run by my husband. He would have nixed it immediately.

I got some of the players aside that had been at my house planting roses. I asked them to let him play a couple of times with them and then tell him that "you can't play football if you wet your pants". They chuckled and seemed to get a big kick out of the whole situation. They let him in the huddle and ran a few plays with him being involved. Then, the captain said, "Hey wait guys we forgot to ask him the question". They huddled around him and said, "We forgot to ask you something. You can't play football if you wet your pants. You don't wet them, do you?."

I would love to have been inside his head when he was weighing out his response. He idolized the football players above everything except his daddy. He would have wanted to tell them "no" but he was a confident enough kid he didn't need to lie. I am told his answer was something akin to, "I don't anymore". And true to his word he never wet his pants from that day forward. I love telling that story on him and he groans claiming it is an exaggerated tale But,it is what it is. The truth.

Then, there was the first Halloween in the house. We weren't in the "swanky" or even the "nice" part of town. We were in the very oldest section and our roads were dirt roads on the outskirts of the community. We had no idea how many Trick or Treaters to prepare for. But, feeling a maternal nesting syndrome having my own home, and because it was near our son's birthday, I took great care making gingerbread men and let my children help me decorate some of them.

It didn't take long that Halloween night for everyone to spread the word there were real home made gingerbread men at our house. I allowed the tricksters to choose from decorated gingerbread men or decorate their own. Kids and students piled in. We left the lights all off and used only candles. My husband being the jokester he was would put the nylon over his head and wore a slouched down hat. He would appear out of about anywhere and chase the screaming kids with shaving cream out the backdoor and porch onto the lawn.

As the evening wore on the groups begana to thin out. There was a new group of kids in the kitchen and the scary man hadn't appeared yet. As luck would have it at that very moment our neighbor children came for their first visit to our house since we'd moved in.

These neighbor kids lived across the road and up on a hillside in a nice three bedroom brick home. They also happened be the only black family in the whole community and the little boy was about seven or eight and his sister about three. Their older brother was one of my husband's junior high student football players but he didn't accompany them. They came up on to the porch with bags in hand and dressed in costumes. I encouraged them in to come in in order to pick out their very own gingerbread men or decorate one.

They were very timid and looked about warily at the darkened house and costumed people. It was at that very moment my husband made the unfortunate decision to run through the house chasing some students with shaving cream. Being Jr. High girls, these students shrieked so loud and in such a soprano pitch they could have awakened the dead. Truly.

All I know is that our little neighbors threw up their hands, sacks, candy and all, and went screaming out the backdoor. They ran all the way home screaming "Momma, Momma, that crazy white man is chasing us" over and over.

Fortunately we were able to make amends with their folks and assure them we weren't after them . The children never once came over to play or visit following that incident. Whenever I went to visit their house, they'd get the "deer in the headlight look" if I invited them over.

We loved my brother-in-law coming for visits. As the oldest of the three brothers, he traveled on his job and was a bachelor. He loved being the favored uncle and devoted all his time to teasing and playing with the kids. His last trip to see us before we moved away was in the winter.

The children had gotten a sleigh for Christmas to use on our really big hill. Located in our very own back yard it went far out in to the meadow. My husband and I could sit in the comfort of our house and drink hot chocolate watching my dear brother-in-law tirelessly go up and down that hill with the kids. He literally spent hours entertaining them. It would be months later before we would learn he left with a severe case of double pneumonia. He missed two whole weeks of work. That was significant as he was truly one who believed the family work ethic cliche', "Don't call in, crawl in".

There were many nights of inviting friends over to play cards. Hearts, Pig and rarely Euchre. It was on such a night my brave husband protected us from a skunk when it went into the metal drainage pipe in front of our house. He took his shotgun and killed it. Blew it away trapped inside the pipe. Every rain for months thereafter, we could smell that skunk just as plain as if it had just let go.

There are those who believed we did have a true witch living up on the opposite corner from us. It was actually two sisters living there alone. They were old but looked older because of their naturally white and graying hair. The one sister had been married at sometime in her life, and now a widow shared her small frame house with her retarded sister. The house lent to their reputations as witches as it was unpainted and the lawn was not cared for. The property abounded with about forty or more cats. We never knew how many cats but, we came to know that on the days there was a really foul smell it was likely the sisters had closed one or more up in their oven. It would be by mistake when they were baking, but the cats were no less "baked".

The one sister, I promise you and it's no exaggeration, looked like a stereotype of a witch. She was about five feet five with rounded humped shoulders and a thick body shape. Her coarse hair was long and scraggly framing the swarthy features of her face, The outstanding feature was her large, bulbous nose, which ,I swear to you had a large wart on it. She had small beady dark eyes and seemed to snort rather than breathe at times. She always dressed in long dark dresses that buttoned in front. She had a speech impediment and though retarded it seemed a mild form, but you knew right away she "wasn't right". Her name was Edna, which didn't strike me as a witches name, so it helped me keep a perspective.

People in town avoided her but when you're neighbors you have to speak. She was a little intimidating and knowing she wasn't "quite with it" made me worry about her wandering down to our place when our children were out back. For that reason, I never let them play out of site.

She never did anything overtly bad, but having so many cats and them having no distemper shots, it was later thought that her cats were the source of the distemper that killed our Great Dane. Our vet had given Shadow the proper vaccination but, he still caught distemper and had to be put down. We never quite got over the feeling it was from the cats.

We took a sentimental journey back to our old house a few years ago. I took pictures of the house which looks fairly normal now. No mustard yellow, no chickens or goats, and everything in the "park" area was overgrown. We didn't go inside the house to check out the heating or if there was still a gap between the house and the back porch. There still is no front porch and the livingroom doorway remains periously unprotected. The roses in the rock garden must have run out of their "perpetual fuel of banana soil" as I didn't see any of them either. Though it was sad, somehow it helped me let go and mentally place the location in my "loving memories" category.

It really proves a point that] it isn't the "material" part of the house but, the memories that are created there that you take with you. Our children will never forget their goats and how Becky was the one who taught them sex education when she gave birth to twins in two sacks. My husband got sick and had to go in the house when he saw the birth process. When she began to eat the after birth it was "all over but the shouting" for him. The children laughed and teased him, but he didn't come back out.

The memory of our son going to the doctor to be checked for a concussion following his "encounter of the goat kind". This was because of his literal translation of my edict that he couldn't play with the new baby goats until we "tipped" their sharp horns. Too late I observed him in the pasture with a little stick trying to "dehorn" a goat. He had sneaked out of the house and went to the pasture so he could play with it now. He was three and already had begun dealing with a lifelong problem of " delayed gratification" skills.

For me, I carry the memory of watching my husband outside proudly hoeing in his vegetable garden; then beginning to yell and dance and yanking off his pants. He had disturbed the ants while hoeing, then hesitated on the ant hill to say something to the children. There he was in all his glory and briefs, jumping up and down and swatting wildly before running for the house for sanctuary.

Another time he was clearing tree saplings outside and came in to the house holding his head. Thinking he had the beginning of one of his famous migraines, I went to get some ice. When he lifted his hand, it was all bloody. Usually, "tough blood, guts and gorey me " never got faint. I never thought anything of blood until it was "his" blood. I almost fainted. He had been using a two edged axe on the quick slope and "forgot" , whacking his self in the head.

For the children it may also be the memory of their daddy tying Becky the goat to their red wagon. He had the idea of her pulling them in the yard but she suddenly bolted and took off down the steep slope. All of them went tumbling over and over down the hill with their daddy chasing and yelling "Becky" "Stop Girl" "Whoa".

My husband would probably recount to you the time I called the school and told the Principal to tell my husband "as soon as I find the shot gun shells I m killing that %@#@&% Billy Goat", then hung up. My husband came rushing home driven in a fevered manner by the school janitor who was also a friend. They found me out in the yard doing battle with the Billy Goat. We had bought him to butcher and I guess before he died he thought he was entitled to one last romp. He was trying to mount one of my little female goats and I wasn't about to let that "big old Billy hurt that tiny little female goat.

The Billy had gotten loose and had head butted me when I tried to feed him . This sent me sprawling. He had escaped his pen and went straight over the top of me and for the nannys and little goats. I was not receptive to talk from the two howling buffoons who had come to save the Billygoat. I didn't want to hear about "nature taking it's course". If I had been able to find those darn shells, we'd have eaten goat even sooner than we eventually did.


We were blessed to have had our little "surprise house" and we learned a lot of lessons. I learned never to underestimate the man I married. He learned never to believe a guy is giving you a good deal just because he's a preacher(small matter of the abstract, taxes, etc.) And we learned that it's in the loving and surviving of experiences that life is lived and your legacy is created.