once more, my desert

Sitting here in my chair by our big bay window and looking across the sage and bunch grass to the mountains, I remember the first time I came to New Mexico.

I was teaching third grade at Dover Avenue Elementary in Dover Ohio when I felt the Lord calling me to teach at the Rock Springs Navajo Mission. I had one year of experience in the classroom. When it came time to sign my continuing contract with Dover Schools, I simply couldn’t do it. I told my principal I was going to go teach on a mission school instead. He may have thought I was a little strange, but he was a Mennonite so I believe he understood to a certain extent. He suggested that I take a leave of absence instead of just tossing the contract down the drain.

That worked for me.

Sandy Wendell said she would go with me to the mission and work in their bible school. My parents, even though I was over 21, were worried about the two of us going alone. I think Sandy was maybe 17. Mom talked to Sister Grace Henry about it and they came up with the perfect traveling companion. I wish I could remember her first name but she was simply ‘sister Blackwell’ to us.

A tiny fantastic woman, she was the best example of holiness they could have sent with us. She was jolly and a fun friend. She never lost patience with our silliness and she was always ready to stop at some roadside attraction that caught our eye. She’s gone on to be with the Lord today, but she has stood beside sister Green and sister Craig as an example for me in my walk with God.

We all enjoyed the trip through Indiana and Illinois, but the landscape was about what Sandy and I were familiar with in Ohio. Sister Blackwell had made the trip to NM with sister Henry before, but she was willing to look for the Mississippi and the famous Arch just as much as we were.

It wasn’t until we’d crossed that river and started southwest across Missouri that the land began to change from flat rolling land to places where the Ozarks rose up to meet the sky. It was exciting, but only a little taste of what was to come.

Oklahoma fell back into flat rolling grasslands and farm land. Sister Blackwell told us stories of campmeeting in Moore and Coffeyville and ‘introduced’ us to the saints in those places- brother and sister Chancellor, the Januarys, the Jantzes. She told us of brother Turnbow and other ministers. The miles across Oklahoma can be long and a little boring, but she kept them interesting. And her love of the Lord ran through all her stories. He life hadn’t been easy. She had had more than her share of heartache, but she had come through it all with the joy of the Lord.

Oklahoma is famous for the tornados that tear across its flatlands. We had smooth going though until we reached the western line. There we began to get into dark skies and nasty winds. We were in the middle of no where so we just kept going.

As we crossed the eastern panhandle the dark skies and wind began to pour out a load of rain. The blowing got worse and finally I followed two or three other tourist off at a lonely, but convenient exit.

Looking back I know it was the worst thing in the world to do. The exit led to a deserted gas station sitting on a little rise! Of all the stupid places to park during an incipient tornado that was about the worst!

Sandy and I were excited about the hail stones that were bouncing off the hood of the car and bouncing on the ground all around. Sister Blackwell pointed out that they could dent my car! Mercy. That made me pull under the long v-shaped shelter over the old gas pumps! The roof protected my car finish, but it would have done absolutely nothing to protect us from even a little funnel cloud!

I remember when Sandy and I were exclaiming over the hail, sister Blackwell told us, “Girls! You should stop being so excited over the hail and be praying for the Lord to protect us. This is tornado weather!”

Sandy and I had no idea how dangerous a tornado could be. I’m sure to this day that it was sister Blackwell’s prayer that took us through that weather. When the rain stopped we went on down the road just a few miles to Amarillo, Texas. I stopped there at the first gas station because I’d been worrying all across Texas that we were going to run out and be stranded.

The nice attendant made friendly conversation like all the people do in OK and TX. “Where y’all coming from? Nasty weather over there to the east. You might wanta stay here in town for a while.”

We told him we’d just come from Oklahoma. “Did you see that tornado that went through about the state line? It was nasty!”

No, we hadn’t seen it. We’d been sitting on top of a hill under an old gas station shelter! Thank you, sister Blackwell, for your prayers.

Pulling out of Amarillo, we began to see the southwest desert. The green, green grass turned to a pale gray green punctuated here and there by stalks of choya and sagebrush—not much, but only here and there. As we went further and got into NM, the gray-green grass gave way to miles of sagebrush with only bunches of pale green grass visible around their bases and between them. Other places the bare dirt ran for large spaces.

There were rising slopes that suddenly broke into deep canyon-like washes with rocky sides and, where you could see down, sandy bottoms. The washes alternated with acres of flat sagebrush and began to be spotted with juniper from time to time.

The first real ‘mountain’ I saw was Tucumcari Mountain sitting off to the side of the interstate.

Tucumcari Mountain

Now we see it only as the first signpost of the “real” New Mexico, but then it was exciting and sister Blackwell told us there was an Indian story connected with the name, but I don’t believe she told us the story. I don’t think she knew it. I didn’t learn it until later.

The desert was a desolate place to my mom. Sister Blackwell was just a little more admiring of it that mom was, but she was still no enthusiast. I liked it. I didn’t come to love it as I do now for a couple years.

Now I sit here and look at the Manzanos and the sage brush between here and there. Even the sand blowing across the windowsills and in every crack, even the heat and the centipedes that creep in or the scorpions that I’m always concerned with when I get up to use the bathroom in my barefeet at night, don’t deter me from loving New Mexico.

Every year when I come back, as soon as we cross that invisible line from Texas’ ‘still kinda like Olkahoma’ to the ‘real’ desert landscape, joy wells up inside me. This year we flew. And still when I was able to look down across the brown sandy land with the gray green sage brush. And like every year, I thanked the Lord for letting me come back once more.

grown up children

A few weeks ago my youngest niece got married. I haven’t been able to go to many family gatherings for quite a while due to my problems with getting around. I didn’t think I would get to go to Dessie’s wedding until my brother called to say he would arrange to get me there if I wanted to come.

As it turned out, I got to spend some good times with my other nieces as well as my nephews (they were busy with wedding duties, though). I enjoyed the time tremendously. I know my brother’s kids have grown up as much as mine have. For some reason I always envision them at the same age they were when they were visiting us on a regular basis. I know that isn’t so, but that’s an intellectual knowledge. Emotionally I still think of them as ‘kids.’

As much as it surprises me when my son flies from NM to Ohio to get me and take me to visit them, it surprised me to see Jodi doing the same thing from Missouri to Ohio. I was tickled to see Kati with two kids and Luci with two little boys and an ‘almost grown’ daughter. Everyone was being so ‘grown-up’ and efficient. Why that should surprise me I don’t know but it did. And it pleased me.

I felt very much loved too. Rachael always worries about my going off with other people. For quite a few years I’ve needed family and friends to help me: I couldn’t walk very far. I couldn’t stand for any length of time. I needed cars brought to me and in some cases I needed help getting in the vehicle if it was too far off the ground. If I forced myself to walk or stand, my knees simply stopped working and I had the greatest difficulty standing or walking. The pain would be intense and I wouldn’t be able to sleep without taking some serious pain killers.

Rachael didn’t need to worry one single bit with my nieces and nephews! There was always someone asking if I needed something and if they could go get me something. They brought cars close for me to get into and Jodi even turned the car around so I didn’t have to even walk around it! Now I’m even walking without crutches and they still took care of me.

One of the greatest pleasures was finding that Luci is serving the Lord. It was a blessing. I didn’t love the others any less, but I was happy to find her living for God.

Another thing that I enjoyed was seeing my nephews. I’ve only seen pictures of them on Facebook. I haven’t seen Richie for a lot of years—since before I moved to Columbus. That’s at least four years I think. Jole I hadn’t seen for longer than that until he stopped one afternoon last spring while he was in Columbus.

What was fun though was seeing them both in person again. Richie, from his scroungy everyday clothes, was wearing a three piece suite and had his hair and beard nicely trimmed. My first words to him were, “Wow! You clean up nice!” And he did, he looked very nice.

Jole on the other hand honored the occasion by “getting a hair cut.’ I had to giggle privately, because he got one of those hair cuts that can only be described as ‘shaggy and wind-blown.’ I think he did put on a jacket for his duties, but he didn’t neaten up his ‘wind-blown shaggy hair.’ I loved it! He and Richie were like day and night.

But it didn’t matter because the wedding with its beautiful bride serious groom was a mixture of formal and informal, serious and fun. It was one of the nicest weddings I’ve ever attended.
So many times, weddings are so formal and so regimented that there doesn’t seem to be any joy in them. This one was definitely more joyous than formal.

I just didn’t get to spend enough time with everyone. I sat between Luci and Jodi at the dinner afterwards. I was across from Luci’s husband and her two boys. We said nothing of any earth shattering importance but I really enjoyed talking with them all.

It was the way a wedding should be, not too formal, but a wonderful time of connecting with family and friends.

I have to say though that I did miss Grandma Dessie. I didn’t realize until almost the end of the evening that I’d been unconsciously watching for her ever since I saw Pat and Dale Wells arrive. Grandma Dessie was like that, everyone loved her. She was a very loving person.

dogs

Last night, as many nights, I slept with a small dog snuggled up against my behind and a tiny dog snuggled up under my chin. Both of them have slept with me from the day I they came to live with me. When I got Gabriel he weighed maybe a couple or three pounds. Maggie may have weighed a whole pound soaking wet. Both of them left a mama and brother who they snuggled with. They got cold at night by themselves. Each was so tiny that I kept it close to my chest or chin because I worried it would be squashed if I turned over.

That made me begin remembering a whole string of dogs going back through 60 years.

My first dog was Skippy. I’ve written about her before. Dad picked her up at the shop where he worked. She was scrawny and covered with mange. He brought her home and took care of her, treated the mange until she was a pretty little terrier type dog. He conned my mom, who grew up on a farm where dogs were dogs and stayed outside catching rats and mice, into keeping her by saying the baby would like her. That baby was me and I DID like her.

Skippy was our house dog for many years until I was about 10 maybe. Then she got hit on the road. (I didn’t know that for many, many years) After Skippy, we got another house dog, Penny. She was a little Chihuahua-terrier type dog. Someone at work had either given or sold her to Dad. Dad’s family had always had terriers and he didn’t feel content without one. Penny came to live with us when I was about 11. We had her until I was 15 when she developed cancer and had to be euthanized. Broke the whole family’s hearts.

After she died I got Cindy for my 16th birthday. She was another tiny dog. Dad used to say he paid a dollar and ounce for her. Twenty dollars for a dog about a pound and a quarter. She lived until I was incollege when she dropped dead with a heart attack.

During those first ten years though, Dad acquired two black and tan coon hounds, Midnight and Blackie. I don’t know if Blackie was really his or if he was just keeping her for a friend. At any rate we only had her for a few months and she went to live with someone else. Midnight stayed with us until the day she died I don’t know how many years later. Dad used her for hunting foxes and coon. Daytimes she tracked foxes. Nighttimes she chased coon.

Before she died Dad came home one day with a big tri-colored coon hound named Dick. He was a good dog and let the little boy who lived next door eat dog food from his pan! Yeah, well. The dog was good. The kid could have been brighter.

We had a couple beagles over the years. One just showed up at our house and stayed a while. We called her Queenie. She had an ingratiating habit of raising her lips in a kind of modified growl effect like she was smiling. She did it when she was happy to see us. Dad kept asking around to find out if anyone owned her. He finally found the guy. The man said he’d lost a dog that ‘smiled’ when she first saw you. He’d hunted for her for weeks before he gave up. All the time Queenie was safe at our house. She went back home.

The other beagle was Tuffy. I think he originally belonged to Dad’s friend, Walker. As Walker got older he was less able to hunt and take care of Tuffy so he gave him to Dad. From then on, Tuffy lived a life of relative ease and only went hunting often enough to keep him happy. He was the dog who impressed my brother for something entirely different from his hunting prowess. We had butchered a cow and Dad said to give the kidneys to Dick and Tuffy. On his way to the barn, Buster gave each dog one kidney. Tuffy grabbed his and swallowed it whole! That was pretty impressive-beef kidneys are good sized and Tuffy wasn’t such a big dog. Even better though, when my brother came back from the barn, Tuffy had barfed the kidney up and was chewing it! Now THAT was remarkable.

Dick, who was very traffic-wise, was killed on the road just below the brow of the hill where he couldn’t see the on-coming car that hit him. Tuffy died of old age.

About the time Tuffy died, my Dad was visiting the neighbor man who had a beautiful Keeshond in a pen at his house. He noticed a neighbor kid poking a stick through the pen wire and yelled at him for teasing the dog. The neighbor said it didn’t matter because the dog was vicious anyway. Dad said of course the dog was vicious with those kids teasing him all the time.

The neighbor said, “You think you can handle him, he’s yours.” And Dad came home with Misty. I think Misty bit every one in the family before we learned to handle him and he learned to trust us. My brother bought a Keeshond female to mate with him. Her name was Pooh, really Princess Little Bear, but we called her Pooh. After he married he took both of them with him when he moved to Newark. I don’t remember what happened to Pooh, but Misty died when Buster leant him to a friend for breeding and the stupid guy tied him so that when he jumped off the roof of his dog house he hung himself. Stupid people!

Dad lived with only his cat for a while then my brother bought a farm and rented his house in town to some people with a young Labrador Retriever. They kept him in a pen behind the house.

One day there had been a window peeper in the neighborhood and when he came to their house the Lab had jumped his fence and took out after the guy. He left blood on their front porch and a trail of drops down the street. The police caught him by following the blood drops.

Stupid people were afraid of the dog for protecting them! They were going to shoot him or some such, but my brother talked them into giving him the dog. And he eventually gave the dog to Dad. His name was Boy. The first time I met him was when I came to visit from college. We pulled up at Buster’s house and I got out of the car without a second thought. Boy jumped on me and grabbed my arm in his teeth. I don’t know to this day if he was attacking or greeting me. But I said, “Well, hi there, Boy” and
scratched his head with my other hand. I didn’t know that was his name, but he thought I must be a friend and decided not to bite so hard.

Years later, when Louie and I were living with Dad, I was home alone with Mom and two toddlers when some guy came hiking up the drive. I don’t know what he wanted but Boy didn’t ask any questions. He had been lying in the shade by the garage door. The first I knew the man was around was when he yelled and went tearing across the yard with Boy hot on his heels. We had a steep bank along the roadside of our yard. I saw the man jump over the bank and, apparently, run off up the road. Boy stopped at the top of the bank. He’d done his job.

We had Boy for probably 10 years or more. He lived in the house and went out as he pleased… He was getting old and ran directly in front of a truck one Sunday when we came home from church.

When Notah was born Louie and I were living with Dad taking care of Mom. We had only Boy inside then. John and Jenny lived outside and Boy didn’t really mind staying out with them. When Notah was about two months old, just before Thanksgving, Grandpa came home with another little yellow Chihuahua named Billie. His friend Jonesy had given her to him. Jonesy was as partial to little dogs as Dad was and he’d made the mistake of getting Billie without first consulting his wife… As a result he had to find a good home for Billie.

Billie loved Notah from the very first minute she saw him. He was in his port-a-crib. I’d gotten it somewhere second hand and it didn’t have the long legs that made it tall enough to be a crib; consequently it was only about six or eight inches off the floor—a perfect height for Billie to hop between the bars and snuggle up against the baby. I never thought Louie would allow that dog to sleep with the baby, but he surprised me. He thought it was cute. ) He also allowed her in our bed!

Billie became Rachael’s dog when she was born.

When I lived on the mission a acquired Terry Brown’s dog, John. I called him John. I don’t think Terry ever named him. He just claimed him. John-dog and Joe McCormick’s dog got some coyote poison. Joe’s dog died almost immediately. John dog staggered around for a couple more days.

Finally I went out one morning and found John lying in the rain under the drip from the over hang on the roof. I yelled for Terry and asked him why he wasn’t taking care of his dog. He said the dog was gonna die anyway, why should he bother. I told him to give the dog to me, I’d take care of it. So he did.

For a week I bought milk and fed the poor dog. He was skin and bones and wouldn’t eat anything but milk. McCormicks and Terry thought I was crazy for buying milk for a dog. I carried him to the barn every night so he would be warm and every morning he would stagger out to lie in the sun. Over the course of the day, he would move a few feet from here to there and by evening he’d be over by the school house or the mission soaking up the sun. So I’d pick him up and take him to the barn.

Gradually he recovered and got stronger. His coordination was always poor and he walked stiff-legged in front. I don’t think he could see very well because his eyes were set in his head and he couldn’t move them to look around. I don’t remember his pupils dilating or contracting either. I had John till Notah was three or four when he died of old age. He was probably only about eight years old. I’m sure he aged precipitously because of the coyote poison. He was a good dog.

I also picked up a trash dump dog while we were riding the preschool bus with Mr. Tom. We drove through the Gamerco trash dump as a shortcut to the house of one of the kids. Jenny and her sister were probably 10 weeks old or so. They were sitting beside a big box beside the road. Jenny was a pretty sable color with black ticking. Her sister was black. They were both very thin and weak looking. I decided immediately that I was going to come back after school and get them. When I got back, only Jenny was left. I don’t know what happened to her sister. I suspect she crawled of and died, because Jenny was very weak.

It was late fall when I found her. She stayed outside the dorm and I fed her every day in the back outside the kitchen door. One day she could barely drag herself around and she carried her back leg. I couldn’t get her to the vet until Saturday and when I got her there he said that the thigh bone was broken not far from the hip joint and had started to heal already. She would probably walk with a limp but she would be okay. A greater problem was that she had distemper and he said that would kill her sooner than the broken leg.

He gave me antibiotic and advised I keep her warm. If her temp spiked, I was to bring her back immediately. I had no place to put her to keep her out of the weather. It was freezing every night. I put her in a box and put papers down in the little house where Linda and I had lived. I fed her twice a day and cleaned up her papers. She had to be kept clean and couldn’t be left in her own dirt. If it was warm I let her out during the day.

McCormicks had fits when they found out I was keeping her there. Never mind she was hurt and sick. Never mind I was cleaning after her scrupulously. She was a dog. And dogs didn’t belong in the house! So, how to keep her warm and protected.

I ended up parking my Corvair close to the dorm and taking the backseat out. I lined the floor with a heavy shower curtain and covered it with papers. I gave Jenny a box and bought a little Coleman heater to put in the car. That kept her warm during the night and kept her sheltered from the wind. For the next several weeks I took careful care of her and when her temp finally stabilized, the vet said she was good to go. I was able to discard the shower curtain, store the Coleman heater back in its box and put the seat back in my car.

Several months later McCormick confessed. HE had hit her with the school bus one morning as he left to run the route. I thought it petty… devious… I don’t know what word to use. But he was the one who hurt the dog in the first place, then they had given me grief when I tried to take care of it… I had Jenny for about 12 or 15 years.

While Louie and I lived in the little pink house, I had John and Jenny but from somewhere I got another dog that I called Crybaby. She was very timid and cried if anyone moved too quick. She was barely a big pup when I got her but she had evidently been abused enough to make her scared of her shadow. I only had her a little while.

The dogs slept in the barn shed in the winter, but one bitter cold night Crybaby tried to sleep on the step of the house instead and froze to death. I was sorry. She’d had a hard puppy hood and in spite of good care and love as she grew up, she was always afraid. I don’t think she was even a year old when she died.

How many more dogs through the years…. Judy dog, a little American Cocker Spaniel found at the chapter house one night; Specks, the daughter of Judy and Boy; Hungry, Specks and Boy’s son; Fidget, Billie-dog’s ‘hubby’; Snuggles, Tasha, Trouble Spider, Cookie and Aspen, a chocolate Lab who protected me after Hungry died; and finally Maxim who came to live with us after Aspen died with cancer…

Sixty long years. Many years we had more than one, but each one had its special person and was well loved. Some were house dogs and others lived outside on the farm with us. I wish our dogs could live as long as we do. Now I know Gabriel and his brother Sebastian are getting old. Their departure is coming some day before too long. Maxim is still young and so is Maggie. They can carry on when the others have to leave me as so many have in the past.

strange things remembered

For a lot of years I had a recurring memory of standing at the top of a long flight of stairs. There were so many steps that the drop off was foreshortened, as an artist might depict a road disappearing down a long hill. At the bottom there was a small expanse of wooden floor and a wall. The wall had a window, high up, with a colored design of flowers in the glass.

I was standing on a landing looking down. To my right was a shorter flight of stairs and at the top of those three or four steps there was a wide hallway. At the far side of the hallway I saw my mother standing in the bathroom door as though she were saying something to me.

On my left, as I stood on the landing, there was a window through which I could see some leaves and the upper parts of another house.

The picture was very clear in my mind and still is today.

The second image I remembered was of me sitting at the bottom of the long flight of stairs looking up at my mother who was standing on the landing. The stairs were again foreshortened and my mother looked smaller than I knew her to be. I don’t remember crying until I recognized my mother. Then I yelled. Until that point the memory was completely silent.

Through my childhood and much of my teens I had no idea where the memory came from. I suppose I simply regarded it as the remnants of some strange dream.

Then at some time there was a family conversation regarding how I had fallen down the stairs when I was just a baby, barely walking. We were living at 1010 Tuscarawas Avenue in New Philadelphia. All of my conscious memories were of the house where my grandfather lived further down the same street. Mom and Dad had moved in there to take care of him when he wasn’t able to care for himself or live alone. I think I was about three.

The recurring memory of the stairs and my fall was from the first house almost before I could talk well. No wonder I had no frame of reference to make it seem real. When I heard the story I began checking details. I recalled them all just as they were in the house that I only remembered in that one instance.

I think it was neat that I could then and still can so vividly remember something that happened when I was so young. I have no other memories of that age.

blessings

I am so blessed! Sunday morning in service we sang the song, “Til the Storm Passes By.” I was so blessed by it that I simply couldn’t sing. I had one hand waving in the air and the other wiping my tears.

In the dark of the midnight have I oft hid my face,
When the storm howled around me, and there was no hiding place.
‘Mid the crash of the thunder, Precious Lord, hear my cry,
Keep me safe till the storm passes by.

Till the storm passes over, till the thunder sounds no more,
Till the clouds roll forever from the sky;
Hold me fast, let me stand in the hollow of Thy hand,
Keep me safe till the storm passes by.

Many times Satan whispers, “There’s just no use to try,
For there’s no end of sorrow, and there’s no hope by and by”
But I know Thou art with me, and tomorrow I’ll rise
Where the storms never darken the skies.

When the long night has ended and the storm comes no more
May I dwell in thy presence on the bright peaceful shore;
In that land where no storm ever comes, Lord may I
Dwell with thee till the storm passes by.

Till the storm passes over, till the thunder sounds no more,
Till the clouds roll forever from the sky;
Precious Lord, let me stand in the hollow of Thy hand,
Keep me safe till the storm passes by.

The Lord has proven Himself over and over and over for me! I have cried at midnight. I have felt like there was no place to shelter me. I have heard Satan whisper his lie and his threats. I’ve felt the sorrows and the heartache so that I couldn’t see past it. But EVERY time the Lord was there, covering me over with His Hand. My body may have suffered, but the most vital part of me was safe in the Lord’s protection. And the Lord then cared for my physical needs, too! Just in time. Every time.

The song is still running through my head and heart this morning, two days later. “In the dark of the midnight I’ve often sought His face…when there was no other hiding place and no other help!” What a wonderful recourse in time of need. I thank Him for that shelter close by Him.

God plans ahead

When Louie died, Notah was not quite five yet and Rachael was two. I felt it was really important for them to see their Grandma Howe as much as they could. She spoke very little English and there was no way she could really know her grandkids except by having them there. I also felt it was important for them to keep ties to their cultural background and family in Rock Springs.

When Louie died I had gotten a sizeable insurance settlement—much larger than I expected. I thought I would only get $5000, enough to bury him and a little more. Instead I got $25,000 plus several months of interest. A few days after Louie’s death, I talked with our insurance representative. He had handled dad’s insurance for years and was almost a family friend. He said that the insurance company was ‘investigating’ the claim and that he didn’t have the full amount for me now, but he did have a check. I was praying, “Lord, just give me enough to pay his funeral expenses.”

Chuck was apologizing, “I’m sorry I don’t have the whole thing for you. I don’t know what their problem is….” And I’m praying, “Please, Lord, just give me enough to pay his funeral expenses.” Then Chuck said, “All I have here is a check for $8000. I’m really sorry. You should have another $16,000.” And I was jumping up and down thanking the Lord for that!

At any rate, for all their stalling around, Prudential had to give me an additional four or five thousand in interest when I finally got the rest of my benefit check. (Chuck was kind of gloating.) I had enough even after funeral expenses to put $25,000 in the bank. I had a certificate of deposit that gave me $2,500 plus or minus for the next ten or 12 years so I could take the kids to see their Grandma without worrying how to finance the trip.

Now isn’t it fantastic how the Lord works things out. Why Prudential had to ‘investigate’ I’ll never know. Our premiums were paid on time. Louie had certainly died. He hadn’t committed suicide. It was certainly a ‘premature’ death; that is why I got the $25,000 instead of the $5000 I was expecting. If he died before a certain age it was considered ‘premature.’ When we bought the insurance policy we had no foreknowledge that I would ever need it to keep Notah and Rachael connected with their Navajo grandma. We didn’t expect even that Louie would die. We got it more as a ‘savings’ for future security. Instead the Lord had other plans for it!

I can never stop being amazed at how God brings about his will by planning years and years in advance.

more about travelling with family

I just came back to NM with Notah. He and Rachael have it arranged: they come and get me and R & M bring me back to Ohio. We had to make the trip in only three days this year since Notah couldn’t take more than two days off from work. It was definitely a speedy trip-not to mention the fact that Notah has a lead foot. We came from Columbus to Rolla, Missouri the first day, from Rolla to Amarillo, Texas the second. Had it not been for me I’m sure Notah would have finished the trip that day. It is only five hours to Albuquerque from Amarillo. But out of consideration for me he stopped. Besides we wanted to eat dinner at the Big Texan!

I thought how different the trip was, even though it was a quick one, from travelling with my Dad or my brother. I wrote elsewhere among the blogs about travelling to Arkansas with Mom and Dad to see Aunt Rene and Uncle Arthur. It involved travelling until everyone was dead tired and then finding the only available motel–usually a dingy dreary one that no one else had wanted to stay in.

Years and years later I made the same trip with my brother and discovered he had the same stupid rationale! We were coming back from Fort Smith—my brother, his wife, Jackie, Jole, Dessie and Richie-who was only about a year old, maybe not that. My kids were both teenagers and I was old enough to know better than listen to Buster.

The trip out was for Uncle Arthur and Aunt Rene’s 50th wedding anniversary. We had a nice trip out although my brother was driving my van and we didn’t stop until nine or nine thirty. It was at least a decent motel. And we got to Fort Smith around noon the next day. My brother insisted we make it in only two days. That’s hard to do with three kids under five, but we made it.

Coming home, my brother insisted that we do the trip in ONE day. We drove through to Illinois. I tried several times to get him to stop but he refused. He didn’t want to get home one day and then have to go back to work the very next day. Well duh. What did he think his wife was going to do with three fussy crabby babies while he took that day easy? What did he think I was going to do. What did he think Notah and Rachael were going to do–well school is about the same as work…

It was pretty late when he asked Notah to drive while he slept a while. Great! He laid down in the back of the van and spent the next hour grouching at two pre-schoolers who were too exhausted to sleep. Finally Jackie and Rachael squeezed Jole and Dessie in between them on the bench seat because he was being so nasty to them. Richie got passed back and forth between the two of them.

Notah drove until he was tired and when Richie, in typical tired baby behavior, threw himself backward into Rachael’s face smashing her lips against a mouthful of braces and making her nose bleed, I decided we would stop. I told Notah to pull into a motel and before my brother woke up enough to even realize the van had stopped I was inside getting us rooms. I put the whole thing on my credit card. Half way through registration, Buster came stomping in to the motel office wanting to know what I thought I was doing.

I said, “I’m getting us a room for the night. Everyone is exhausted and this drive-straight-through-thing is stupid.”

He told me that he wanted to get home tonight so he could ‘rest tomorrow.” Oh yeah. HE would rest, Jackie would spend the day chasing kids so he could rest! I was diplomatic but I told him that and said I had to go to work on Monday, too, and I would like to rest tomorrow, too, but not at the cost of three preschoolers and my kids being worn out and cranky.

“Who’s paying for all this?” he wanted to know. I told him I put it on my credit card even though I knew he had enough money to take care of his family.

“Well, just don’t expect one cent from me!” he said and turned around and stomped out. I never saw one cent from him either. He got his travel habits from Dad. He got his stingy attitude from Grandpa Elliott.

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The last time I traveled on along trip with dad a similar thing happened. We had a travel trailer with us that year… Having a travel trailer meant that we didn’t have to stop at a ‘real rest stop” but could simply pull off at a nice place, have lunch and rest a while. Yeah, Do you really believe that?

We would travel along—until we were all tired—and then Dad would start looking for a place to stop. My most distinct memory is of a road side rest area. It had nice trees and you could pull well off the road so it was almost like you were out in the country.

He pulled in and the kids unloaded with the dogs. He and they all went out in the grass and played under the trees. Guess where I went. Yep. Into the travel trailer to ‘get something to eat quick.” But the trailer was packed full-that was dad’s modus operandi when ever he traveled. So before I could ‘get something to eat quick’ I had to move all the junk. Then I had to pull out a pot to make canned soup and put together sandwiches.
Of course the canned soup had to be made with water from the thermos since there was NO water at the rest stop.

Wy the time the soup was hot, Dad was calling out ‘how long till we eat? we want to get going. We can’t spend all day here.” (Translate that: HE wants to get going and HE can’t spend the day here. I certainly wasn’t worried about it. )Fortunately, soup was hots so I called everyone in to eat.

Now Dad didn’t believe in disposable cups, etc. so we used real bowls and silverware, which of course had to be washed after everyone finished. Guess who had to do that—with water from the thermos heated on the little camp stove.

By the time I finished Dad was still calling, ‘Come on. We’ve all had time to rest. Let’s go!” Oh yeah? WHO rested? Not ME. That was my last camper trip with Dad. I refused to go in it again.

I loved him and sometimes I really miss him, but he did have his contrariness~

dogs

As I was writing on Tangled Highways this morning, I thought that I’ve written almost nothing of our dogs and other pets here on Chosen Highway. Those pets have been one of the biggest blessings in my life. They have taught me patience. They have taught me faithfulness and they have been a tremendous example of obedience to our Heavenly Father.

My very first pet was a little terrier-mutt dog named Skippy. From what I remember of her and what Dad told me I guess she was mostly fox terrier with maybe a little of something else mixed in to give her the brindle coat. Dad picked her up at his work one day. She was just a runty half grown pup with a nasty case of mange. Do you want to know where I got my love of animals? From my dad. Who else would pick up a dirty sickly pup but someone who loves animals?

My mother grew up on a farm. To her animals had their place and their jobs, either they were raised for sale or food or they had to be vermin catchers or protectors of livestock. They had no place as pets. I think she was a good example of wifely ‘submission’ and love for her husband in that she put up with a multitude of animals being drug, paraded and doctored in her house for her entire life.

Skippy was the first pet in our house. Up until Skippy, Mom had withstood Dad’s fondness of pets. But Skippy came home just a few weeks before I was born and Dad used the excuse that the baby would need a pet. (Oh yeah, Mom was a push over.) The first thing Skippy got was a good bath, but even that and good food didn’t fix the mange problem. At that time, nearly 70 years ago, there was no sure-fire cure for mange; at least none that Dad knew. And a veterinarian was out of the question.

He talked with everyone he knew trying to find a treatment. Skippy ate well and gained a little weight, but her mange got worse. Naturally, he wouldn’t expose a baby to that condition. Finally, in desperation, he decided to try the solution someone had suggested. He gave the dog a bath and mixed up a solution of carbolic acid and something else… I don’t know what. . . to pour over her. The carbolic acid was the only thing that stuck in my head. ACID! What in the world!?

But it worked. She didn’t seem to mind the treatment at all and a few days later all of Skippy’s hair fell off! Dad said he wondered if he had helped the dog or killed her. Then she healed all pink and brown healthy skin. He hoped wouldn’t have a permanently bald dog. Pretty soon the hair began to come back in. In a couple weeks she had her smooth brindle coat back! Now today there are good treatments for mange (Keep in mind: I don’t know what that solution was. I only remember the shock of the words ‘carbolic acid’) so don’t ever try this on your dog! But happily it worked. You might get it wrong.

By the time I was born, even Mom liked Skippy. Of course she was a house dog. Could my father have had anything else? She told me over and over how fascinated I was by Skippy. She would tie her to the door knob beside my highchair and I was content to sit propped up there forever and simply watch her. Later, when I was old enough to sit up by myself and drop pieces of bread or cereal, I could occupy myself for longer periods of time. And of course, when I could walk Skippy was right on my heels. The source of goodies by the hour! What else could she do but follow me! We had her until I was probably in fifth grade. She was just gone one day. I never knew what happened until years later when Dad said he had found her dead on the road. She was a good dog.

From that time on we had a series of little terrier dogs. None of those shaggy little rug rats for Dad! He had spunky little shorthaired fox terrier types that thought they could fight wildcats. They would go in a groundhog hole and bring the ground hog back out with them—or at least give it a good try!

When I was grown and living at home with Dad after Mom and Louie died, we had a whole herd of Toy fox terrier-Chihuahua crosses. Everyone was well loved and trained. Some slept with me, some with Rachael, some with Notah, some in the stairway where they had their own boxes. One day there was a wild rumpus in the front yard and we all went running out to see what was the problem.

Here were Cookie, Spider and Billie-dog with a groundhog they had harried down out of the pasture field! Now of all the dogs who I would have picked to attack a groundhog, those three were the bottom of the list! Snuggles, Fidget, Trouble, yeah. They were tough but not those three little girls! They had harassed the groundhog until it was suffering and Dad took his pistol to put it out of its pain.

Billie was the only one of the three who had any injuries. She had several bite marks on her neck and shoulders. But then she had a tummy full of puppies about ready to be born! She couldn’t move as quickly as the others!

If those little dogs had the heft to back up their courage they would be something to deal with. They would make all the muscle dogs, the pit bulls and Rottweilers and Dobermen look like wimps.

As the years passed after Dad died, the little dogs passed away, too. I lived without one for a few years when I moved to Winfield. I didn’t realize I missed them until the people across the road got a fox terrier who looked and sounded like my Trouble. I heard him barking and could see him behind the house. (They kept him tied out!! Horrors! Our terriers were never tied outside, even when we had eight of them!) Then I began to miss having a little dog. That is when Rachael and Michael decided to get me another one but they didn’t tell me that.

They read the Bargain Hunter every time they came down to see me and one day in March said that Michael wanted a little dog so I had to go with them to find one advertized in the paper. Evidently Rachael, who grew up with fox terriers, couldn’t pick a good one. Yeah. And I fell for it.

We drove waaay out in Amish country and found the farm that had the fox terriers advertized. R & M went in the building where the kid kept the dogs. They came out with the last two pups. They said which one was the best looking little fox terrier. I held them both and then chose the one that best fit the fox terrier standard. As I was holding it, Michael said, “Happy Birthday, Vondi!” How happy was I!!!

That was Sebastian. Of course, he didn’t have a name yet. He was supposed to be my dog, but with dogs, they choose their owners. The owners don’t choose them. And Rachael and Michael bought both pups! As it turned out Sebastian chose Michael and Gabriel chose me. By the time we got home they had their names and I had a little dog.

And now I have them both! Sebastian decided when I moved in with R & M that he wanted to stay down with me. So there they are… snoozing on my bed.

Gabriel and Sebastian snoozing

Little dogs will probably always be part of our family. Notah and Kerra have Chloe; we have Gabriel and Sebastian.

wishing

I’m lonesome for the sound of Navajo this morning. When we lived in the little pink house Louie used to wake up very early (for his Anglo wife) and make coffee. He would turn the radio on and fix the fire then sit drinking his coffee and thinking. The announcer was often alternating between announcements in Navajo and country-western songs. It was a quiet and soothing thing to wake up to. And it was cozy for me to lie there in bed knowing all was right with my world.

Before we were married he used to tell me about waking up early and listening to the radio while he laid still thinking about starting his day. I never really experienced that until we lived in the little pink house. Of course our radio ran on batteries, but we listened none the less. One of the Gallup radio stations ran Navajo language programs and the fledgling Window Rock stations did, too. Some of the announcements I understood, others flew over my head, but the rhythms and cadence were part of my life. And this morning I’m missing them.

I guess it’s because Leonard has been so sick and I’ve been thinking of him and Helen so much. How hard it must be for Leonard, not only to be sick but to be surrounded by the sound of English on every side. Leonard has always seemed to me to be a very traditional Navajo. He worked for many years in the Penney’s store and of course that was an Anglo atmosphere, but each day he returned to his home and family and seemed to step back into the Navajo way of life. He was always friendly and pleasant but I was never sure just how fluent he was in English. I know he must have longed for the sound of Navajo during those nights in the hospital when Helen and his family couldn’t be there.

At any rate, I woke up at 330 this morning and everything was quiet. While I was washing my face and bushing my teeth it came to me how much I wish I could turn on the radio and hear a man announcing the world events and local happenings in Navajo

snow

It is 23 degrees this morning and Columbus has 1.25 inches of snow. And half of the schools in the area are closed.

Now, back in the day, when was a child, I had to walk two miles through knee deep snow. LOL But seriously, I do remember distinctly walking to elementary school through snow to the top of my boots. Remember those floppy rubber boots you pulled on over your shoes? Those! We used to get to school and they would be full of snow! The teacher made sure we turned them upside down in the ‘cloak room’ so they would drain. That’s how deep the snow was. In all the years of elementary school we never had school closed.

Then in high school I was eligible to ride the bus because we lived so far from the school. But still I remember standing across the road from our house waiting for the bus again in six inches of snow. Ralph drove the bus along the entire route on unplowed roads. Plowing country roads just wasn’t done. Even State Route 21 never got plowed! And even then it never occurred to anyone to cancel school!

West Elementary School stood on a high bank. For many years the school was heated by coal and the janitors just dumped the ash about 20 feet out along the side of the building. This had created a pretty steep bank. By the time I was in school I believe the building was heated by gas. Or maybe they had figured out something else to do with the ashes.

Regardless of the depth of the snow we had to get our snow clothes on to go outside for recess and the most popular outdoor activity on those days was sliding down that bank and trying to stand up till you got to the bottom. In the middle the bank was highest and steepest. There only the big boys had the nerve to slide down. As the bank tapered to either end the slope was less steep and shorter. That’s where the smaller kids slid. I don’t ever remember a teacher standing over us calling out cautions or worrying about someone breaking a leg. The daycare director in me says, “Oh mercy! Look at the possibilities for injury and the sure probability of liability!” It seemed that no one worried about that when we were kids.

We would get covered with snow and our boots again would get filled with it. (unless we were able to sneak out without them. You could slide better in flat soled shoes.) Standing outside every entrance to the school were several brooms. When the bell rang at the end of recess we all took turns sweeping one another off before we went back into the building after recess.

Now it never occurs to the teachers to send the kids out in the snow. In fact, it is probably prohibited in a lot of systems. I think of the crazy things we did as children. And you know what! We lived through them! I let my kids do crazy things and although I’m sure a full body Xray might reveal a few cracked bones, they lived through it all, too. I have to admit that when I heard of them jumping out of the hay window of the barn down into the pile of hay they had just thrown out for the horses I had heart failure. They did admit that the landing was kind of hard. Give me Grace! Well I guess I don’t need it anymore—they have grown up and Notah is letting his kids do crazy things.

Now I use up my share of Grace for other things.