Grandpa’s adventures with some goats:

At this point I feel the urge to reminds of some of the lighter happy side of a boy’s life. This incident began in the spring of 1899, I think. After the crops had been planted, father took a trip to northern Indiana to his boyhood stomping ground. He planned to stay until it was time to start to cultivate the corn. He judged the length of his stay by how fast the corn was growing in northern Indiana. He finally decided it was time for him to start home. The nearer home he got, he realized the corn developed faster than where he was making his judgment. The nearer he got to home the more worried he got, as it was past time to begin cultivating the corn. I had never cultivated, but Irvin had. We got the cultivators out of storage and put them together, and started to cultivating. By the time he got home, all of the corn was cultivated except a 20 acre field. Father was so happy about it that he said we could take a vacation, and he would finish the cultivating the first time over. (He was so slow getting his 20 acres cultivated that we could never get it clean enough to get a full crop.) We went on the train to Calhoun, a town 40 miles to the south. While there, we became enamored by some young goats that were for sale. We bought a Billy and Nanny and took them home. The baggage car of the train accepted them as passengers for a fee of 25 cents each. When we got to our home town of Tekamah, Billy had eaten the tag off of Nanny’s neck band, so we had a bit of trouble to claim her, but the baggage man was finally persuaded to let us have Nanny also.

We had great fun training and playing with Billy and Nanny. We made harnesses for them, and one of our prize pictures is of us driving them hitched to our play wagon pulling a cousin of ours. All went well for a time, but Billy finally disagreed with that kind of fun, and would turn around and start to fight. We discovered that Billy was mortally afraid of getting his beautiful wool caught in barb wire, so we controlled him for a time longer with a piece of barb wire for a whip, but that soon failed to control him, and driving our team of goats became a lost art. We had a board fence enclosing the yard around the house. There was a flat board on top of the fence. The goats had great fun in walking on top of that fence. All went well unless Billy and Nanny happened to be walking in opposite directions on the fence and happened to meet. Billy always solved the problem by giving Nanny a bump and knocking her off on the ground. He would look proudly down at her and give his accustomed snicker of triumph, that only a goat possesses. One stunt of fun was to take Billy by the horns and let him push us backwards. All went well until he got us going so fast backwards that we would fall on our back. That was always an occasion for his accustomed snicker. That fun finally gave out as Billy got too rough in pushing us. One of his happy moments was to catch us stooping over. When we were not watching, he would run from behind and knock us sprawling. That was always a signal for his snicker as he watched us get up. If we happened to leave a flat board standing up to the roof of the buildings, they were sure to spy it and go up on the roof and walk around. They would walk to the lower row of shingles and look down unconcerned. We were always afraid that Billy would catch Nanny on the lower row of shingles and give her a bunt. The roof of the buildings are too steep for a person to walk on in Nebraska.

Billy finally became such a nuisance, that we had to shut him in the yard with the other farm animals. The only way to keep him in the yard was to put a string of barb wire on top of the fence. He never got over being afraid of barb wire. He was an Angora goat with long fleecy wool, he was always careful to not get it caught in any entangling material.

For some reason Billy always had a great sense of revenge for anyone or anything that would disturb his beautiful wool. If he brushed a fence or any object, he would violently retaliate. Sometimes we would come home and find a gate smashed to splinters, and the livestock scattered all over the place. Once I saw him when a fence post had evidently shattered his serenity. A nail in the post had evidently pulled his wool. He began butting the post, gently at first, but more violently as he proceeded, until blood was dripping off the end of his nose. I would drive him away, but he would return to get revenge on the post for disturbing his beautiful fleece.

One fall we had more corn that enough to fill the cribs, and we made a temporary crib beside the yard where Billy was confined. He had evidently caught his fleece on a nail or something on the crib of corn. He began battering it, and when he hit it, a few kernels of corn would drop out. Evidently the corn dropping out enraged him all the more. He would stop and eat every kernel of it. He had access to all the corn he could eat, so he was not hungry, but it evidently avenged him to eat it. I do not know how long he battered and ate. The next morning he did not come out to the feeding of the stock. I found him lying down on his side (unnatural position) in one of the sheds. I went up to him and said “Hello Billy”. He raised his head and gave out a moan, and put his head back down. In about two hours he was dead. He had evidently eaten so much corn for revenge that it had killed him. There was no mourning at his passing, but he received an honorable burial.

There are a number of things about this set of stories that I particularly like: the off-hand reference to his father’s powder horn, his efforts to avoid stepping in cow piles, and especially his casual remark about nearly getting killed: “The next incident was relatively unimportant, but just falls into the regular pattern of a boy’s life.”

About two years after the cow incident, we had had a Fourth of July celebration at our house. It was customary for the neighbors to gather at some home for the celebration. After the celebration, there were many burned out Roman candles lying around. My brother conceived the idea that we could continue the celebration by cutting the Roman candle shells in half, plugging one end, fill it with powder from father’s powder horn, and put a fire-cracker fuse in the other end. And then he said, “Come on Elmer and light them”.

The first one went off with a big bang and left quite a hole in the ground. The second one was balky, and would not light properly. I was huddled down over it blowing on it, when it went off in my face. I went rolling backwards down the hill. My whole face was torn and bleeding. For some unaccountable reason my eyes were closed when it exploded, otherwise it would have surely blinded me. I had grains of powder embedded in my eyelashes for years before they were finally absorbed. I had one big powder grain embedded in the tip of my nose. It persisted for many years. For some reason people ask me of late, “What is the matter with the tip of your nose”. It is only the remains of the powder grain. I do not know why it has not been noticed till recently.

In the fall of the year, we naturally had to rise long before daylight to do the chores. I judge that I was about 14 when my next mishap occurred. Our barn was composed of two parts. The front side of the barn had a row of stalls for the horses and the back side a row for the cows. Father cared for the horses and we boys milked the cows. Father had a lantern for his side of the barn, but was afraid to trust us with a lantern, so we had to do the best we could in milking the cows in the dark. I always had an exact place for my milk-stool, so I could find it in the dark. I always put my stool on top of the first cow to get the exact location of the cows, so to better judge where the cow piles were likely to be, so I could step around them.

On this particular morning, when I put my stool on top of the first cow, I went with a bang back against the back of the barn. My father called, “What’s the matter in there?”. I told him that the cow had kicked me. He said, “There are no cows in there. I turned the cows out last night and put horses in there”. I was laid up for a few days with the same hip that went bad after I had diphtheria. Needless to say that mother insisted that we have a lantern for our side of the barn.

The next incident was relatively unimportant, but just falls into the regular pattern of a boy’s life. I judge that I was about 17 when this incident occurred. We boys had largely taken over the responsibility of the work on the farm. Father seldom went to the field. Father promised we boys that if we would stay home and work until we were 21 and help him pay for the farms, that no one else would ever share in them. When we would get the farm work caught up and there was work available that would bring in cash, we could have whatever was earned that day.

It was on a hot afternoon that we were to drive teams for the road grader. We were getting our teams all hitched together tandem, and I was down behind my team getting them hitched up, when one horse gave a kick at another horse that was nosing her, and hit me in the head instead of the other horse. It knocked me senseless. I suppose father felt of my head to see if it was bashed in, and then carried me over and laid me in a wagon box that was beside the road. It was with a horror that I later awakened and saw the teams and grader far down the road. My $1.50 that I was to get for the work of the afternoon had vanished with the kick from Fanny. Later I was able to stand up, and a load of hay came along, I climbed up on the load and went home, and went to bed. The next morning, I was none the worse for the incident.

Two more episodes as related by my grandfather:

During the winter of 1891-92 a scourge of diphtheria came to our rural community. Most of the cases were light. My little brother, Willie, came down with it. Within four days he was dead. In a few days I came down with it. After three days the doctor said there was no hope for me and that I would soon be gone. Mother had watched my brother, Willie, die; so she got a long hat-pin, sterilized it in the fire, and dug at my throat by the hour, and kept it open so I could breathe. Finally the crusting in my throat began to subside, and I was out of danger. For about three months after I was able to be out of bed, I could not walk, because, as they said “It had settled in my legs”. I think, instead, it was because of the horrible medicine that the doctor had prescribed that my legs could not be used. To this day, I sometimes feel that same pain in my hip. Very few boys are indebted to their mother two times for their life.

During the winter of 1896, my grandmother Blue had had an accident. She had fallen through a board while riding in a hayrack, and fell through onto the hard road. Soon she was on her death bed, evidently from a kinked intestine. Mother was staying with her, caring for her, and on the day of my next accident, father had gone to town on business.

My elder brother, Irvin, had gone for the cows, to bring them home to be milked. When he got back, he said that one of the cows had a little calf and I would have to go help him bring them home. It was less than a mile from home. On the way I had picked up some ears of corn from the cornfield to entice the cow to follow along. I threw her an ear of corn but she did not seem to see it, so I stooped down to pick it up. The cow jumped at me and knocked me over on my back. She hooked me with her sharp horns. Her horns passed through my coat on one side of the row of buttons, and came out on the other side of the row of buttons. She threw me up on top of her head and ran bellering with me on top of her head to the top of the hill about 25 rods from her calf.

I fell off there on top of the hill and fell into a dead-furrow (the name for the place in a plowed field where the dirt has been thrown both ways and left a ditch). I straightened out in the dead-furrow and each time the cow tried to hook me, she would run her nose in the ground. After several attempts to hook me, and having stepped on my legs a couple of times, she left me and went back to her calf. I got up and was so scared that I, seemingly, could not make one leg move past the other. However, when I finally realized where I was, I had gotten clear to the valley, and my brother was trying hard to catch up with me from the creek bank where he had taken refuge.

First I noticed my cap was missing. (It was several days before I got courage to go look for it.) Then I noticed that my coat was torn nearly the full length of the front on each side of the buttons. I asked my brother if he thought mother would give me a licking for getting my coat torn. My coat was new, made from the back of an old coat father had worn out. How I wish that I had preserved that coat to this day. Mother had no more gray cloth like the coat, so she patched it by putting in pieces of strong cloth, brown on one side and red on the other.

Father later went after the cow and calf, and tied her in the barn, and cut off the ends of her horns. I can still feel the thrill of joy that we boys had in getting a long pole and jabbing the cow by the hour making her beller. I had no injuries except a bruised chest and some bruises on my legs. Needless to say, mother did not lick me.

My mom’s father, Elmer Cashes Blue, was born on December 28, 1886 in Tekamah, Nebraska. Sometime in the 1970s, he put down on paper many of the stories he had told us while we were young. His tales of growing up tell us just how different life was then:

“Just for the novelty of it, I am writing down some of the unusual experiences of my life. It seems that I have always been accident prone. For some reason I have always escaped without serious injury. I cannot account for the repeated times that I have been in danger of getting badly hurt, sometimes not so serious as others. I think that I am rather of the cautious calculating kind. But it seems to continue to happen. My mother always took comfort in her philosophy of my escapades. She would always say that the Lord had some important work that he wanted me to do.

“I, of course, have no recollection of my first accident, but can only repeat it as my mother told me. She had me tied in the highchair. She went into the pantry to get some flour for a neighbor. I evidently rocked the highchair and tipped it over onto the cook stove. Mother heard me scream, but thought that I was hollering because I was left alone. When she came, I was lying with my head on the stove. The knob of the stove was the place where I lighted. It burned a hole in my head clear to the skull, but did not break through. It was many, many years before it finally healed. As late as 20 years ago the scar has cracked open and bled. Of late years I have had no difficulty, except the hair has receded so I cannot keep the scar covered.

“My second episode, I think I can remember, but my parents say that I was too young to remember it. They say I was only about two years old. Father was putting straw on the strawberry plants to protect them for the winter. He had a wagon load of straw. I was pulling strings out of the straw from under the hayrack. He started the team and heard me squawk. He ran around the wagon, and I was lying on my back immediately behind the hind wheel. He knew the wheel had passed over me. He carried me to the house and told mother. She would not believe it could be possible until two years later.

“It was almost two years from that time that I was in the corn field, helping what I could in picking the corn. I had gotten tired and gotten up on the wagon on top of the full load of corn. Father was not so good at husking corn as mother, so we all went along to help husk the corn. I got up on the front of the load and lost my balance and fell off in front of the wagon wheel. It frightened the horses when I hit the doubletrees on the way down, and they started up fast. Father grabbed the lines to keep the hind wheel from passing over me, but he was too late and only backed the wagon back over me. Mother ran around the wagon and pulled me out. The wheels had passed over my stomach and pushed me down into the soft dirt so the wheel track was visible on each side of where I had lain. They took me to the house and put me to bed. It was 12 miles to town to a doctor, so they decided to wait till morning and see what developed. By morning I had forgotten all about it, and came out into the kitchen with my usual “whippee” as I jumped over the door sill. I have never felt any bad effects from either of these episodes.”

These stories about the hayrack must have been especially poignant as his own grandmother had died while riding on one when a board broke and she fell through and died.

Wishing all of you a loving and lovely day!

I was thinking of skipping my usual morning walk today as it was supposed to feel like 25° because of the wind chill. When I actually took the dog out, though, not a branch was stirring and it was 39° on the my back porch. So Brindy and I took a walk down to the lake. Hope your day started as nicely as mine.

Moment #1

I’m planning on going see the latest Star Wars movie this week and decided to watch all the previous ones in preparation. I had forgotten just how bad some of them were and how much fun others were. It got me thinking about when and where I saw the very first one.

I was driving around on some back roads in the San Gabriel Mountains one Sunday morning in May, 1977. I turned a PBS radio station on and was immediately captivated by the music they were playing. I was so intrigued that I pulled over before I got out of range of the signal and waited to hear what it was: turns out it was the sound track to a movie called Star Wars.

A few days later I played hooky from my teaching job and went into Los Angeles to finish up my paperwork for joining the Navy. I finished around lunch time. I certainly wasn’t going to try to rush back to work, so I found myself at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre for one of the first showings of Star Wars.

Sitting in that opulent theater, hearing that John Williams score burst out of the speakers, and seeing those now iconic lines scroll across the screen was truly astounding. It was like nothing I had ever heard or seen before and no movie has ever come close to recreating that moment for me.

Moment #2

A second moment occurred while watching the 1984 Winter Olympics. Jayne Torvill and Christopher Deane skated to Ravel’s Boléro. It’s hard now to explain just how mind-blowingly different their performance was compared to every one else, because it set the new standard. Ice dancing was never the same afterwards. I remember almost forgetting to breathe during the whole routine. If you’ve never seen it or have forgotten it, it’s available on YouTube. I just watched it again and it still gave me chills.

If you’ve got any such moments, let me know about them in the comments.