Prairie Tales

INTRODUCTION

Childhood memories are significant. The experiences of childhood shape us and influence our life choices. Stories about these childhood experiences, even when somewhat imaginatively enhanced, allow the storyteller to share the sights and sounds of bygone years.

 Many years ago I discovered William Saroyan and his little book of stories entitled My Name Is Aram. Saroyan effectively writes about childhood experiences, and his stories vividly bring to life the Armenian community in Fresno, California during the early 1900’s. Mundane experiences become subjects for good stories when seen through the eyes of a child. These stories focus not
only on the child but shed light on the culture that nurtured the child. No one but Saroyan can write like Saroyan, but his stories, as those of other writers, remind us of the importance of sharing our stories.

I write these stories for my children and grandchildren. If they choose to read them, it is my hope that they will have a better insight into how we lived our lives in the Mennonite community in Meade County, Kansas when I was a boy. We may not have been much different than other communities, but each community develops its own personality and often perpetuates its value system from one generation to the next. The Meade community had some unique characteristics. These characteristics are rooted in the circumstances that brought these pioneers to the prairies, and some of these are reflected in the stories contained here.

The Zielkes and the Warkentins developed a unique relationship. Cousins and double cousins, growing up within a few miles of each other, experienced a close bond. As children, we played together, celebrated holidays together, worked together in the harvest fields, and went to school together. We watched our parents interact with each other and we experienced the aging of our grandmothers. We heard some of their stories and understood that our grandparents had been immigrants and pioneers. I have a deep and continuing affection for these, my people, and am grateful for the contribution they made to my life.

The stories I share are, for the most part, not based on profound experiences. Life for a small boy at Meade was not filled with adventure and excitement, for the most part. These stories reflect a time and a place. The time has passed and the place, although no longer the same, is still there. In many ways, this is still “home” for me. Often, as I travel west, I feel that I am coming home as I follow Highway 54. The far horizon seems to beckon, and the prairie seems a welcome relief from the noise of the city. My appreciation and affection for the community that nurtured me will endure throughout my life.

Up, Table, Up

They were just kids. Thoroughly rural, not sophisticated, and, by some standards, maybe even naïve. So it happened that someone brought to their attention the possibility of levitation. Not that they used the word, and if someone would have said it, they would not have known its meaning.

They knew nothing of the occult and had done no studies on the power of the mind over matter. But it was said that if they tried hard enough it would certainly be possible to persuade a table to rise from its secure resting-place and be suspended in space. No one knew how high it might rise or how long it would agree to stay there. The informant had apparently been introduced to the process by some now unknown individual who said that he himself had once been a party to this suspension of the laws of nature.

In those days a group of boys, all students at Sunrise School, would often gather during the noon recess in the boys' cloakroom. The game of "Up, Table, Up" became the rage for a short period of time, supplementing the usual recess games, such as "King Base" or "Pump, Pump, Pull-away." The procedure was simple. All that was needed was a table and a group of eager believers to sit around it. The instructions were to place the fingers lightly on the table and to chant "Up, Table, Up!" with ever increasing velocity. When enough energy was transferred from hands to table, it was said that the table would surely rise.

It is important here to stay a moment and to visualize this scene. Here was a group of boys, seven or eight in number. They had come together in the fervent belief that a miracle could occur. The prophets of Bail had nothing over on them except perhaps greater numbers. The chant began and the decibel level rose gradually until the walls of the small room trembled. Expectations were high at the outset and various ones admonished the group to keep the chant alive. The exercise continued for many minutes and after a short recess, again was resumed. At first there was a sense of great expectation in the room. The chant was up beat, with a rhythmic cadence that suggested certain victory. As time passed a tone of desperation could be detected in the chorus of voices and there was a subtle modulation to a minor mode.

In retrospect, what can be said? First and foremost, it can be stated unequivocally that the table never even made an effort to rise. One would think that there would have been some small vibratory sign of life and that at least one leg of the table might have lifted just a wee inch. But alas, just as in the case of the false prophets' pleas for fire from heaven, the table always seemed to be asleep or maybe away on a journey. Maybe it was made of the wrong kind of wood, maybe it was too heavy, or perhaps its coat of varnish repelled the energy. Maybe the effort should have been made at the stroke of midnight with bats flying overhead. That there was energy there is no doubt, but apparently for it to find release in such an intriguing cause all the stars would have had to be perfectly aligned.

Questions remain. What would have been the consequences of a successful rising? One can only speculate, but what project would a group of young Mennonite lads have undertaken next? They might have wanted to try their hand at moving mountains or walking on water. They might have spread abroad their marvelous feats and had the deacons and the pastor at their doors.

Could it be that in spite of the fervor there might have been a skeptic present? Would even one skeptic diminish the possibility of success? There is reason to believe that at least one participant was at heart a bit of a skeptic and felt just a bit sheepish as the tension in the room reached fever pitch. In fact, it seems that he still tends towards skepticism, and maybe this explains….But no! Let's not carry this too far! Aren't we all safer and better served if all tables stay firmly rooted to the floor? Think about it.

The Black Pickup

Actually, the pickup was not always black. It is likely that it came from the assembly line with a coat of brilliant red. Born sometime in 1935 or1936, it was purchased by my dad, secondhand, at about the time of the second big war. When this acquisition was made I was eight or nine years old. Why it became black I do not recall, but I do remember that the paint job was done quickly and quite efficiently with a can of black paint and a big brush. It would be fair to say that the pickup and I grew up together, although it had a bit of a head start when you consider the average life span of a 1936 Chevrolet pickup truck.

Every farm needs a truck. Our farm needed a truck, and had up to this point relied mostly on trailers to haul things. If things were too large for the trailer then someone would have to be called to facilitate the moving of whatever goods were in need of transport. Wheat, during harvest, was hauled by Uncle Hank's truck and by Fred, an itinerant hauler who came around to work for us in this capacity for several summers. I was Fred's seatmate and confidant on many a trip to town and back.

The black pickup was not a large truck. It was a half-ton model with a four-speed transmission, built for light work. By putting sideboards on the box and using oversized tires, it was possible to haul forty-five to fifty bushels of wheat. By mounting a homemade, wooden stock rack on the sideboards, the vehicle could transport pigs, calves, or even a steer to market. By stretching chicken wire over the box, it could be used to take a load of chickens to Klien's in Dodge City.

These were all utilitarian uses for this truck. But as I said, the pickup and I grew up together. More to the point, the pickup contributed to my growth into young manhood by allowing me more independence than my parents may have been aware of. After all, when a boy can operate a vehicle designed for adult use, he tends to develop a bit of an attitude somewhere between self-confidence and a mild form of arrogance.

My first experience as a motor vehicle operator came when I was very young. I was so small that, as I sat in the driver's seat I could only see blue sky through the windshield. My task was to drive slowly along the pasture fence while my dad stood in the back and dropped new fence posts where replacements were to be made. This gave me lots of practice in starts and stops and produced a few tense moments when the left front fender grazed the barbed wire fence.

From this rather shaky start I progressed rapidly. I was soon driving to and from the field and on different errands to Uncle Hank's farm or even to Uncle George's place. I became somewhat of an authority on the performance of a '36 Chevy. I, at various times, tested how fast it would run, how effective the brakes were, and how accurately it could negotiate corners at fast speeds.

Harvest time was, of course, the most glorious of times for a young wheat hauler. I made many a trip from the combine to the granaries on the farmyard, and just as many from the combine to the grain elevator in Meade or Fowler. No driver's license was required during these carefree times, and no one was surprised to see a small boy come wheeling onto the scales in a black pickup. It was harvest, and everyone was expected to help in whatever way they could. I recall no mishaps of a serious nature and in retrospect, I question how I passed unscathed through these years.

When I reached the ripe old age of fourteen, the time came to consider a mode of transportation to and from high school. My school was seven miles away, and the dirt roads were often muddy, drifted over with snow, or deeply rutted. My dad thought the black pickup would make a keen school bus if he would design and build a topper to fit over the box. This was before anyone had ever, at least as far as I knew, thought of such a thing. He proceeded to build a crude affair made of tin, which would provide a cover for a number of passengers. Thus the old Chevy made its contribution to the education of several young students by getting them to the right place more or less on time. I do not recall that a lot of consideration was given to the comfort of the passengers and it seems now that it must have been cold and lonely under this canopy on a bleak winter's morning.

It was during this time that my maternal grandmother had to move out her house because she could no longer live by herself. Her sons and daughters decided that it would be well for her to move from place to place among the siblings, spending several weeks at each place in turn. It so happened that on a cold winter's day it was time for her to make the move to our house. I was instructed to pick her up on my way home from school since her time at Uncle Abe's house had expired. The roads were very muddy, and deep ruts had been carved into the roadbed by passing vehicles. The going was treacherous and I was not sure if the pickup would be able to make it home. I was faced with the question: what do I do with grandma if I get mired down? I had just one remedy: drive as fast as possible and keep the wheels spinning. Grandma hung on for dear life as the pickup pitched and yawed, clawing its way through the mud. Grandma had been through much in her life, including a stormy sea journey to these shores when she was a child. She may have considered this experience just another phase in her rather tumultuous life. She had no comment. As for me, I was glad to get home, and rather proud of my ability to navigate under difficult circumstances.

Using the pickup as a school bus lasted for one year and in subsequent years other modes of transportation were devised and agreed upon, one of which almost led to my demise. That, however, is another story.

  Possibly the greatest role that the pickup had in shaping my life was that of providing me with transportation in my hunting expeditions. It was in my fourteenth year that I acquired a gun. My father did not own a gun. He said that he did not see a need for a gun and that if he needed anything shot he would call Uncle Hank. Some of my friends had guns or they had the use of their fathers' guns. It so happened that one of my friends wanted to sell his rifle and offered it to me for $10.00. I became the proud owner of a Remington single shot bolt action rifle and my dad reluctantly allowed me to keep it.

It so happened that a portion of our pasture was home to a rather large population of prairie dogs. They were great fun to have around and one could spend hours watching their antics as they popped out of their burrows, stood up on their hind legs, and barked messages back and forth to each other. Farmers, however, considered them a menace. The towns, which they developed, could turn an otherwise lush pasture into a barren waste. They were among the first developers to convert good agricultural land into urban housing. Much time and money was spent trying to eradicate the pests. The most common method was that of forcing poison gas into the burrows, but this was only mildly effective. Because of the network of tunnels, which connected their subterranean living space, the gas often did not reach much of the population.

The obvious solution to the prairie dog problem was to stalk them and kill them one by one. The black pickup became my steed, from which I could patrol the entire expanse of prairie dog land. To facilitate efficient shooting I removed both doors so as to make it possible to get off a quick shot from either side. I spent many hours playing the sniper, trying to outwit the wily dogs. It was only on rare occasions that I could actually retrieve my prey because even if I hit one of the little rodents, they would dive into their burrows and either live or die. While this saved on disposal concerns, it did make it difficult to get an accurate body count.

Prairie dogs were not the only targets. Sparrows, rabbits, skunks, and even occasional coyotes were hunted and shot at from either side of the black pickup. The rifle and I became almost constant companions. No stray bullets ever found their mark in livestock or people or passing cars, although the roofs of the neighbor's farm buildings may well have harbored a bit of lead. I was very much aware that the box of shells, which I bought at the hardware store, contained a warning statement, which informed the user that the range of a 22 long rifle bullet was one mile. I considered myself a hunter who put safety first and I am pleased to say that nothing serious ever occurred.

The day came, however, when the black pickup was traded for a 1949 Ford half-ton truck. It was almost new and I didn't miss the old Chevy too much as I drove this newly acquired vehicle. As for the rifle, it stayed on the farm when I went to college, and I would get it out when I came home on vacation or in the summer. Somehow it was not as much fun to shoot things anymore.

I decided to keep the old rifle and teach my boys to become marksmen when they were old enough to learn. As time went on, however, I became more and more convinced that the world had too many guns as it was, and that a familiarity with them was no great virtue. One day a man offered to buy it from me and I gladly let him have it. And so my dad was mostly right after all, as he so often was. He never did push his point very hard, but the drummer he marched to sometimes played a slightly different beat. After all, he did invent and install the first pickup topper I ever saw. And, oh yes, he did use my rifle sometimes to shoot a young rooster rather than trying to chase it down when mom sent him out to procure the main course for dinner.

The black pickup and the rifle, among other things, contributed to my coming of age. Conveyances of all kinds, be it a horse or a camel or something with wheels, have always given a measure of freedom and independence to the young. The urge to move away from the nest seems to be the way the world works. I shall always remember my black pickup.

Left Behind

The young boy was an only child and lived with his parents on a Western Kansas farm. His childhood was generally a happy one, and although much of the time he played alone, he had many imaginary friends who were his constant companions. He was a great lover of books, and after he learned to read, books became his constant companions. Books transported him far from the Kansas prairie and introduced him to many kinds of people and places.

Books enhanced his imaginative powers and contributed to his awareness of the power of ideas. Many of the books which he read were written from a Christian perspective. Faith became a powerful force in his life. The Bible was read at home and at school, and he never missed church and Sunday school. His church and community placed great emphasis on personal salvation. Much was said about the need to be ready for the Second Coming of Christ. Sermons often vividly portrayed the fate of those who would be left behind, and films were made to dramatize the fate of these unfortunate ones. Stern warnings were given and people were exhorted to have "assurance of salvation." This then is the background for the story of one dark, spring evening in 1946.

The boy and his parents were seated around the dining room table. Each was reading. The kerosene lamp stood in the middle of the table, shedding its glow on the table but only dimly lighting the rest of the room. Occasionally someone would move slightly as pages were turned, but no words were being spoken. The boy was totally engrossed in his story. After a while he looked up from his reading and to his surprise, found himself alone. The other chairs were vacant and the books were left on the table. His heart began to beat faster as he frantically looked around in the house. It seemed impossible that two people could have left the table and gone from the room without his knowledge.

He had often had similar experiences. Sometimes when he came home from school his parents were not there. Sometime when he awakened at night he would listen with baited breath for his father's familiar snore, which would assure him again that all was well. But this was different. They were, after all, right there beside him one moment, and in the next moment they were gone. This was exactly like the statement he had heard so often. "One shall be taken and the other left." Only this time two were taken and he was left.

He began to imagine what it would be like for someone who had been left behind. Where should he go, what should he do? He knew that a great tribulation would follow and that unspeakable things would now befall him. He had even heard of terrible battles where the blood flowing in the streets would be up to the horses' bridles. But first, he had to make sure that it had really happened. He had to look for his parents.

It occurred to him that there was a possible explanation for his parents' sudden absence. He knew that every night someone had to go and close the brooder house where the little chicks were kept. This was usually done as part of the bedtime routine, and often all three of them would go out to make the short walk across the garden, past the windmill, to the edge of the pasture. Since the chicken house was rather far from the central farmyard, it was rather vulnerable to raids by skunks or even coyotes, and it was important to make certain that all was secure for the night.

This night was very dark. There was no moon and the stars were brilliant in the heavens. He thought maybe his parents and all the other Christians in the world were passing through the galaxies, rapidly ascending to a better, more secure world. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could just make out the windmill and the garden fence. Then the brooder house became visible, and with his heart in his throat, he hurried toward it. All was quiet, except for the night sounds of the insects. Not even the dog came out to join him. He wondered if the dog had sensed something strange and had crept under the porch to hide like he often did during a summer thunderstorm. His last hope faded and complete despair enveloped him.

But wait! He thought he heard a voice. He stopped to listen. Yes, they were there, in the brooder house, inspecting the little chicks, lingering longer than usual. He walked more slowly, trying to calm his beating heart. He came to the door and looked at them in the dim lantern light. Everything was so ordinary. They were speaking in low tones, so as not to arouse the chicks. Their concerns were earthly, and they would have thought it odd that the young boy who had come to seek them had just looked eternity in the face and found it terrifying.

He looked at them and waited for them to come out. After the door was securely shut, they walked back through the darkness. There was really nothing to talk about. It was a beautiful evening, the chicks were safe, God was in his heaven, and all was right with the world.

Tractors

The need for tractors originated when humans first began to till the soil. When early man scratched in the dirt to prepare the soil to receive the seed, he pulled a stick or so me kind of sharp object. For thousands of years animals were used to make this important task more efficient. Oxen, water buffalo, mules, and horses were domesticated to till the earth's soil so that mankind could plant crops.

It was not until the turn of the century that serious consideration was given to motorized traction. My forebears had been farming with animals for hundreds of years. My father and mother started farming in Meade County with horses and mules. I, however, was born too late to learn how to drive a team of horses with a plough or some other implement in tow.

My father bought his first tractor in the1920's. Actually, tractors had been around for some time but he had not owned one before this. This tractor was a 15-30 McCormick Deering International. It was not the largest model they made nor was it the smallest. Most farmers in Meade County who had the International tractor found the 22-36 to be more adaptable to the type of farming which was in vogue there at that time. The 15-30, which my father had, was one size smaller.

Farming in Western Kansas in the 1920's and 1930's did not require a large outlay in farm equipment. If you had a tractor, a one-way plough, and a seed drill, you could put in a crop. When the tractor replaced horse- power, possibilities unlimited existed for the aspiring farmer. It is no wonder that even today we use the term "horsepower" to rate the performance capacity of engines.

During the 30's and 40's when I when growing up, there was not a large variety of tractors in our community. While there were a few Case tractors and maybe a Minneapolis-Moline or two, most of them were McCormick Deering International or John Deer. There were significant differences between these two. While both were powerful and useful, they looked different, were operated differently, and they certainly sounded different. Most of the John Deers in use were the D model, which compared in size and pulling power to the 22-36 International. The International was a reddish color and the John Deer was a bright green. The sound of the International's four cylinder engine could be described as a gentle roar, while the two cylinder John Deer made sort of a rhythmic poping sound when it ran. The were nick-named "Johnny-pops." The International was started with a hand crank which protruded from the front, just under the radiator, while the John Deer had to be started by spinning the big fly wheel which was mounted on its left side.

Some of the more prosperous farmers, who had many acres to farm, experimented with their 22-36 tractors, looking for ways to make them more efficient. They invented a devise which allowed them to hook two tractors together, thus doubling the pulling power of an already powerful tractor. Someone also invented a self-guide, which extended out in front of the tractor. A small wheel was mounted on this extension and it closely followed the furrow, making it possible for the operator to enjoy the ride, not needing to steer except to turn the corners. 

The 15-30 International was not a mechanical monster, but to a small boy it seemed so at first. The early tractors did not have rubber tires. They came equipped with lugs, which were sharp, triangular iron grips, attached to the rear wheels. This provided almost unlimited traction in the field. Tractors with lugs were prohibited from driving on paved roads but this was never a problem for us as we did not live or farm near a hard surfaced roadway.

The gasoline engine was very noisy. It had to be started with a crank, and if everything was in order it was quite easy to start. Often, however, the operator had to turn the crank many times before the engine could be persuaded to come to life. It was back breaking work and also dangerous and also contributed to extended vocabulary development on the part of the operator. Many an arm was fractured when the engine backfired and the crank suddenly whipped around in a counter-clock wise spin.

The tractor had an iron seat, very much like the ones used on horse-drawn farm implements. It never occurred to anyone to try to make these early tractors comfortable or safe. The operator was perched over the drawbar, with an iron steering wheel in front of him. The 15-30 had a clutch petal and a steel lever to shift the gears. It had a low gear, which was used for the heaviest pulling, and a second gear, which was used for most fieldwork. The third gear was used mostly for travel on the road or light work. There was also, of course, a reverse gear, so that the iron horse could be backed up and hitched to whatever implement was to be used.

There were many reasons why this tractor would prove to be a challenge for a small boy to operate. To turn the engine over with the crank required the strength and stamina of a grown man. The clutch pedal was too far away from the seat, and a boy's short leg would just barely reach it, and if he could reach it, he would not have the strength to push it all the way forward. The gearshift lever was also to far away for him to manipulate. If he should manage to get all of the above done, he would be faced with the difficult task of steering the beast with a steering mechanism that had not been designed for small arms to maneuver. In short, the 15-30 was not small boy friendly.

But there was a way around this. After all, when a boy is eight years old he wants to become a tractor driver and many a father is anxious to initiate his growing son into the fraternity. I would often ride with my father on the tractor. There was ample room for a boy to stand beside the seat or sit on the fender, just above the big wheel with the iron lugs. Sometimes he would let me sit in the seat and steer the tractor and after a while I was able to wrestle with the steering apparatus and persuade the tractor to turn the corners. Since we worked all of our ground with the one-way plough, we always drove in the same direction and the corners were all to the left.

When I was able to keep the right front wheel in the furrough and successfully turn the corners, my father would sometimes jump off and let me go round after round by myself. When it was time to stop, he would climb aboard while the machine was under way, and take over driving duties.

As time went on, I mastered all of the controls and even was able to crank the engine. During the early 40's, as drought and depression receded, farmers began to see a bit of a profit as wheat prices rose. Soon a major improvement became available for tractors all over western Kansas. Steel wheels were being replaced with rubber tires, and this is what we did with our 15-30. Soon tractors all over the county were running more smoothly. Such was progress.

But rubber tires were not the only advancement being sought by these Kansas farmers. They had just suffered through a devastating drought, much of their soil had moved south with the infamous dust bowl winds, and they were ready to recoup their losses. As the rain came and wheat yields improved, many were looking for more land to farm, and for newer, more efficient equipment.

My father was also thinking of replacing the old 15-30. The second big war had just begun, and while there was a tractor dealer in every small town, new tractors were in short supply. He went to Branans in Meade and signed up for a new W-6 International. Many farmers had signed up and everyone had to wait their turn. I couldn't wait to get the new tractor, but as the months passed I almost gave up hope. One day the call came. But it was a mixed message. They were getting a new Farmall M, and the farmer who had signed for it had decided not to take it. Since we were next on the list, they offered it to us.

So it was that we traded in the old 15-30 for a brilliant, red Farmall M. The Farmall had been designed for row crop work with the two front wheels set close together on the front axle. When pulling a heavy load, such as a 12-foot oneway plough, it became very difficult to turn the corners, because the front wheels did not provide enough resistance to counter the forward drive of the large back wheels. Thus individual brakes were provided so that one of the back wheels could be stopped while the other continued to drive, and this made it easier to negotiate the corners. This also put a lot of ware on the left brake drum and it became a routine task to change the worn drum at regular intervals.

The Farmall, however, was a wonderful tractor for use in front of the wheat drill and the combine. When cutting wheat you could make the turns so sharp that the combine would back up just enough to make a square corner, thus not leaving any standing wheat which would need to be cut later. It became a matter of pride for the tractor operator to keep the corners clean.

It was also a great road machine. When traveling between fields in road gear it could run twenty miles per hour, which incidentally, was too fast for any implement you might be trailing. It was also quite light in the front, so that, when pulling heavy loads, the front end had a tendency to raise up, and if the power was not cut quickly, it could come over on its top, with the operator pinned beneath it.

This then, was the extent of my experience with tractors during my boyhood. It was only later, when I worked for other farmers as a college student or during my early days as a teacher that I had the opportunity to operate larger, more powerful tractors. I will always cherish the memory of the old 15-30 and the new M. They were not the biggest and the best, but they were reliable companions on many a long day under the Kansas sun. The sound of their engines is music to my ears even today.

Prince And Dolly

When I was a boy, growing up on the prairies of southwestern Kansas, I had only one serious ambition. I wanted to be a cowboy. I wanted to sing like a cowboy, dress like a cowboy, ride like a cowboy, rope like a cowboy, and talk like a cowboy. I got an early start on the singing by listening to the many cowboy singers on the radio and I could soon imitate them quite accurately.

I acquired some articles of cowboy dress as time went on, notably a pair of boots, which I earned by giving the chicken house a weekly cleaning for a period of time. This I did to get the boots, knowing all along that a real cowboy would not be cleaning a chicken house because he would not have chickens on the place. I also acquired a beautiful gold shirt and a cowboy hat, which I would wear to the rodeo or other occasions which called for western wear.

I spent a lot of time with my lariat, roping fence posts and calves, and even tried my hand at bulldogging. Cowboy talk was modeled for me every time I went to the cattle sale in town and also by my favorite cowboy, uncle Hank, whose vocabulary included some Low-German expressions which I thought were especially useful when dealing with an obstinate steer.

But how was I going to ride like a cowboy without a horse. I did occasionally ride someone else's horse, but what I wanted was a horse of my own. My parents had not owned horses since the last team had been sold, when mechanized farming had become the norm. They often spoke nostalgically about the horses they had owned and my dad sometimes expressed a desire to again have a horse on the place.

So it happened that we went to see Joe Fletcher, a rancher who was a well-known horse trader. Joe had a ranch southwest of Meade where he ran cattle and horses, and it was great fun for a boy to go and see Joe's spread. Joe had a reputation and people warned each other to be careful because he had been known to pull a fast one or two in some of his horse deals.

We went, nevertheless, and came away the proud owners of not one, but two fine looking horses. Joe, living up to his reputation, persuaded my dad that the pair was a team, and that it would be a shame to break them up. Their names were Prince and Dolly. I do not recall if they came with names attached or if we gave them the names.

The names were appropriate. Prince was a big horse and immediately gave us the impression that he considered himself royalty. He had a way of letting us know that he would prefer not to work. He became the prince of the pasture, and was mostly left to enjoy a leisurely existence. If you did want him, he was hard to catch, and sometimes the only way to bring him in was to chase after him with the pickup. He seemed to enjoy this and would give us quite a run for our money, till finally he would agree to go into the corral.

I did not ride Prince. The only person who would ride him was my cousin Herb. He did not buck but he was frisky and Herb considered it a challenge to ride him. Since Prince and Dolly were a team, my dad would sometimes harness them to the plough and prepare the garden plot with them, and they proved to be well trained. He enjoyed this because it took him back to the days when all of the farm work was done with horses

The love of my life was Dolly. She was gentle and seemed to enjoy my company. I loved to get the currycomb and comb her mane and her black coat till they shone. Since I was usually alone, I talked to her and it seemed like she understood. I very seldom rode her with a saddle. I would put a bridle on her, put her next to the corral fence and jump on her back, and we would sally forth. We would ride all over the farm, along the country roads, and often bring in the cows from the pasture. She was quite willing to go for a gallop at full tilt and it was an exhilarating experience for a small boy who would imagine that he was chasing bad guys or controlling a stampeding herd.

 Sometimes Herb and I would plan a special expedition and then we would put the saddle on her. One of these adventures took us to Meade when the Carnival was in town. It must have been Rodeo time and the whole county was in a festive mood. We rode into town and tied up the horses in a vacant lot and set out to enjoy the carnival rides and the food. After consuming several hotdogs we rode the tilt-a -whirl. Somehow the two were not compatible and I remember clearly the long ride back to the farm. Dolly faithfully took her sick passenger home, and he suffered with each step she took.

Another foray took us into the cattle country southeast of Meade. We spent a pleasant day exploring, and even picked up a few interesting artifacts at a site where a family had homesteaded many years before. It was great fun to follow the streams and canyons, and imagine that we were the cowboys who cared for the herds in this remote part of the county. After spending all day in the saddle we returned tired but pleased with our steeds and with ourselves.

In 1945 my parents made the decision to go to Washington to spend the winter months with my Uncle Pete. The purpose of the trip was to investigate the possibility of moving permanently to Washington. With this in mind, we had a farm sale and sold some of the farm equipment and other items. Included in the sale were Prince and Dolly. When we did return to Kansas I was saddened by the fact that they were not there to greet me. No other horse was acquired to replace them and as time went on my interests and ambitions changed. I will always remember Dolly. She was a true and loyal companion, and she made some of my dreams come true.

Revive Us Again (And Again)

The group of boys in the front rows sat spellbound as the man behind the pulpit held up the spike in his left hand and then carefully placed it in the center of a short plank, which lay across the pulpit in front of him. With his right hand he raised the hammer, and with flawless accuracy hit the big nail squarely on the head. He followed this with several more blows and the nail was securely driven into the board. We were astounded. How could it be that a blind man could drove a nail home with such force and do it without bending the nail, or worse yet, smashing his thumb?

This, and other, similar demonstrations, kept our undivided attention, and kept us coming back to the church every night for two weeks. Even if our parents had wanted to miss an evening, they would have been hard put to keep us away. What was the event that kept us coming every night for two weeks? It was the annual Spring revival, and, while the intention was to bring spiritual awakening to the community, it was also a significant social event. Not only was this a Spring event, but often another "series of meetings" would be held in the Fall of the year. If the evangelist were not the blind man, there would be another preacher with oratorical skills adequate to keep an audience interested and entertained, and theological credentials, which would assure doctrinal acceptability.

To be present at these services was exciting. There was always singing. The gospel songs were familiar, and people sang for the shear joy of singing. The choristers were enthusiastic young men, who, like cheerleaders at an athletic event, prepared the audience for the events of the evening. The simple four part harmonies echoed and re-echoed, as song followed song. There was a sense of solidarity, and people felt safe and secure as they crowded into the white church out on the prairie.

It was hoped that the preaching would be for the edification of all that attended, but the targeted audience was generally the young people who were expected to be baptized and join the church. Sometimes there were those among this group, who, knowing that the preaching was aimed right at them, resolved to be present at every meeting but not yield to the pressure to "come forward." The obvious result was that as the last nights of the meetings drew near, tremendous pressure began to build, and it became a dramatic battle of wills. The preacher's sermons increased in intensity, and dwelt mostly on the themes of the Second Coming and hell. Stories were told of people on their deathbeds, pleading for mercy, and dying in terrible agony. Stories were told of young people whose lives were suddenly taken in an accident. When the invitation hymns were sung, emotional tension would build. It was like an electrical current surging through the congregation. Often the evangelist would heighten the tension by asking for just one more verse. And as verse followed verse, he made it clear that this could very well be the very last opportunity for those who dared to resist. Often, even though the unrepentant ones hung on to the backs of the pew in front of them, they were at last compelled to come to the altar. This, of course, brought great rejoicing to the community. Sinners had been redeemed, and the community belief system had again been corroborated.

For small boys, these were indeed traumatic experiences. Suddenly our world did not seem so secure after all. The sermons were meant to scare people, and they certainly achieved this. All the signs, we were told, pointed to the eminent demise of our world. While the music and the stories were great fun, we dreaded the awful descriptions of what would happen to those who were not prepared for the Second Coming. Hell was a place to be avoided. The best way to do this was to walk down the aisle and declare to all that you wanted Jesus to come into your heart.

This resulted in warm feelings of relief, and for some the question seemed to be settled. By the time the next revival came along, many of us wondered about the veracity of our experience. Again we heard the dire warnings, and it became clear that if Jesus would return, we might be left behind. Again we would go forward and seek this assurance which we were told we must find.

Who were these prophets who came to us with such authority? What gave them the right to speak so harshly and so ominously? Were they themselves so secure that they could judge another's status with God? Did they sometimes tremble to think that what they said might be wrong? Why did themes of wrath and judgment hold preeminence over love and acceptance in their theology?

The ways and beliefs of these Mennonite survivors reflected the hardships and struggles that they had endured. They had come to this land, broken out the soil, labored to make it productive, and then watched it blow away in the horrible dust storms of the thirties. Life had been difficult for their ancestors as well, and perhaps a basic fear of what the future might hold was ever present in their minds. It was important to emphasize the absolutes which permeated their beliefs, and to make certain that everyone was brought into the fold. They truly believed that this world was not their home and that be ready for the next was of utmost importance.

In our postmodern world, we tend to see this as a rather quaint and old-fashioned way of expressing faith. It may be well to remember that to effect revival or renewal should be a positive action. I t may be that their ways were a bit direct and possibly even crude, but maybe these itinerant preachers were on to something that we should not entirely forget. Maybe it is true, after all, that we cannot live by bread alone.

The Cliffs

It was always an exciting journey. From our farm, where the terrain was flat and the roads neatly marked the section lines, you could go just two miles south and two east, and enter an enchanted land. Here were steep hills, deep canyons, clear streams, and tall cottonwoods. And if you crossed the cattle gate and followed a winding pair of ruts, you could descend to a grove of trees near a placid little stream appropriately and prosaically named "Sand Creek."

Here, possibly at the turn of the century, someone had homesteaded, and built a house and a barn. The crumbling walls of each of these buildings remained, and offered wonderful exploration opportunities for small boys. Here, to this grove of cottonwoods, we would come for a variety of reasons. This is where we sometimes gathered for "Children's Day." This was a summer day when the church family put aside all farm work and gathered for a celebration especially planned for the children of the church. There were all kinds of games and usually a program where the children performed. The tables were laden with a country potluck such as only farm wives can provide. The roast beef, sausage, and fried chicken came not from the store, but directly from the farmyard. The bread, the pies and cakes had been freshly baked just for this day. Often there would be a plenteous supply of watermelons, which were floating in a tank of cold water. And sometime there would be tubs of ice laden with bottles of pop. For some this meal was the highlight of the day.

For the men and older boys, the highlight may have been the softball game. There was a flat area near the trees and bases were set up to designate a playing area. Sides were chosen, and a highly competitive contest ensued. The younger boys would watch the fun for a bit, but soon would look for even more excitement. Sand Creek beckoned and pulled at them like a magnet. Soon the shoes would come off and they would begin to follow the winding stream as it led them south of the cottonwoods. There were minnows, frogs and turtles to catch, rabbits to spot, and sometimes, snakes of different kinds to admire.

The stream curved gradually to the southeast, sometimes widening into larger pools. Eventually the creek made a rather sharp turn and ran almost due north. This spot was the destination, for here were the cliffs. There they stood, rising high above the creek, standing as sentinels, keeping eternal watch over the valley below. Standing by the creek you could look up and watch the swallows whose nests dotted the walls, and you could see small caves and burrows and wonder what animals inhabited them.

The more daring thing to do, however, was to find a place where you could get a hand and foothold, and begin an ascent. Soon there would be a line of boys following a leader, who would mark an upward path and all the rest would eagerly scramble up the almost sheer wall of the cliff. Within minutes they would emerge against the skyline, breathless, but victorious. When you got to the top, you could stand in wonderment as the panoramic view unfolded before your eyes. You could see the winding creek, the road in the distance, and of course, all of the people back at the gathering site. You could stand at the very edge of the cliff and imagine what it would be like to be an eagle and fly in graceful circles over the valley below.

 Too soon, the softball game in the distance came to an end, and people began to gather their things, and car horns began to honk, calling us all back. The magic of the cliffs remained, however, and we would find other times to come back.

It was not unusual for us to go to this area to pick sand plums. Sand plum thickets were prevalent here, and every summer we would seek out the best place to find the succulent fruit. A good sand plum year provided enough fruit for bountiful stores of plum jelly, and quart jars of canned plums for pies and saunt plumemoss. Small boys and girls did not stay with the pickers long. They stayed just long enough to eat their fill of sand plums. Soon they were off on their own, exploring the creek and climbing the cliffs.

As we got older we developed other interests, but it seemed that we never missed an opportunity to visit the cliffs. One such visit brought with it a great and wonderful surprise. It was springtime, and we had one of those Kansas storms that often come during that time of the year. As we explored the creek, we could see that the quiet little stream had recently been a torrent. Brush and debris marked the farthest boundaries where the turbulent waters had raged, and we were awed to think that this had happened on a dark night when no humans were present to witness natures power. As we rounded the bend where the stream flows under the cliffs, we stopped in disbelief and amazement. The area below the cliffs had been profoundly altered. Where there had always been a narrow stream there now was a rather large pool of clear water. Upon closer observation and measurement, we soon found that it was quite deep and the water was unusually clear because of the sandy bottom

The raging waters had created for us a beautiful pool, and our thoughts immediately turned to swimming. It did not take long for us to shed our clothes and explore this godsend. This became our swimming pool for the remainder of the summer, and we even constructed a sturdy diving board on its banks. This would have continued to be our summer swimming place, except that another frog-strangler came along sometime later, and we experienced a reverse surprise. We found, to our dismay, that the pool was gone, and the placid little stream ran again beneath the cliffs, and only the cliffs had been witnesses to the change. They, in characteristic fashion, refused to comment.

The cliffs remain for me a cherished memory of my childhood. The time came when I had sons of my own, and often when we visited Meade, we would go to the cliffs. Even then, exploration might yield new insights into the history of the area. Just to the north of the tall cliffs, as we followed the stream, we would come to some outcropping formations, where the soil and rock had been formed into what looked almost like a cave. Here we would often stop to have target practice with the single shot rifle we sometimes took on these trips.

On the walls, in the shelter of the roof above, we found, on one occasion, some hieroglyphics that were of great interest to us. These were not ancient carvings, the work of some Native American artisans, done thousands of years ago. These were carvings of rather recent origin, proof that others, from the generation before us had also enjoyed the cliffs. Here we could see in bold letters, carved with a sure hand, the declaration that George loves Marie. We all knew that George was Uncle George, who had lived just a few miles to the north, and had loved and married Aunt Marie, who had lived just a few miles to the west. It was not hard to calculate that it must have been about fifty years ago that Uncle George had visited this sheltered spot, and decided to leave a symbol of his undying love on these walls. When, someday, I go back to the cliffs, I want to go and see if time has been kind to the hieroglyphics on the little cliffs. Maybe, if I look carefully, I can find something that I myself carved there for another generation to find.

Bragg's Puddle

It was hot! The southern breeze seemed to blow directly from some unseen fiery oven. The temperature hovered just under the 100-degree mark on the thermometer, with the sun just past its zenith. It was Sunday, and we had hurried home from church. My mother knew that she had only a few minutes to get our Sunday dinner ready before we would hear the insistent sound of a horn, informing us that the swimming gang was assembling, and there was no time to spare. She never could understand how Mrs. Wiens could get home from church and feed her family so quickly. It was a source of genuine irritation to her to hear that horn blow when we were still in the middle of our meal.

I would quickly swallow the last of my desert and gulp the last of the lemonade in my glass for I knew that I could not keep the boys waiting. It was time to get on board! Sometimes the vehicle being boarded was just a stripped down car, consisting of four wheels, a powerful Ford engine and some seats. There were no seat belts or roll bars. Safety was not a consideration. Getting there fast certainly was a consideration, as the car bore its occupants toward a little taste of paradise, a place sometimes referred to as "Bragg's Puddle."

The term "puddle" was actually a bit demeaning for such a beautiful place. It was not a mere puddle. It was really a spring-fed pond in Bragg's pasture, just a little ways from the road. Bragg's Puddle lay almost straight east of our farm. The graveled road became a narrower dirt road after three miles and continued on to the Moundview School, with farms and wheat fields on either side. Then the road narrowed even more and no longer followed straight section lines. The terrain became more scenic, although the boys aboard the strip-down may not often have taken the time to admire the grassy hills and the trees, nor did they always take note of the meadowlark's song as they approached their destination.

These fun-loving boys were products of rather conservative Mennonite families, and not just any activity was considered appropriate, especially on Sunday. Games such as baseball or touch football were approved and often engaged in, but the more exotic activities, such as bowling, pool, roller skating, or movies were taboo. In the summertime, swimming became the activity of choice. Many hours were spent at the pool in Fowler, and sometime trips were made to Dodge City. The pool at Meade was considered inferior because it was smaller and did not have adequate diving facilities.

Then, at some point, someone discovered Bragg's Puddle. The owner (Mr. Bragg, I presume) gave us permission to use it for a swimming hole. The pond had a sandy bottom, so that no mud was stirred up by our activity, as opposed to other swimming holes around the community, which we sometime frequented. The spring-fed water was clear and cold, and just to anticipate that first dive on a hot afternoon was sheer ecstasy. It was important to get to our destination as early as possible, because all of us knew that by four o'clock we would be compelled to head for home to take care of Sunday afternoon chores.

Two things were lacking at this otherwise ideal swimming hole. The first was the fact that no girls ever frequented this place. It might be that we just never invited them to come, or maybe the girls that we knew did not go swimming on a Sunday afternoon. It is likely that they would have looked with disfavor at the idea of swimming in a cow pasture pond. If we desired the company of the opposite sex, we could always go to Fowler, where we could enjoy the company of many other swimmers. In fact, in Fowler, on a warm Sunday afternoon, you had to stand in line to use the diving board, which gave you plenty of time to ogle the girls, but certainly cut down on your diving time.

 At Bragg's Puddle we had no diving board. This was considered to be a serious problem. It was not long till a movement was underway to construct a sturdy diving board. A railroad tie was procured, possibly a stray, left by the side of the Rock Island right of way, and a good length of two by twelve lumber was purchased at the lumberyard. These two main items, along with some posts to serve as anchors, and a posthole digger, were transported to the site, and soon a newly installed diving board graced the pond's edge. We all loved to use the springboard, and spent many hours trying to perfect our diving skills. Some became proficient at flips, forwards and backwards. Some even tried to invent new dives, or had fun doing the cannonball. Sometimes just a plain old belly flop would do.

By today's standards, swimming in a pasture in a remote area might be unacceptable. While the pond was spring fed, it certainly was not chlorinated. There was never a lifeguard on duty, although you could say that there were as many lifeguards as there were swimmers. We had no cell phones with which to call 911 in case of an emergency and none of us had any knowledge of life saving techniques. It was our good fortune that no serious emergency ever arose. We were a happy-go-lucky group, and whatever safety awareness we possessed would have had its basis in some common sense practices, which came from our experiences on the farm. 

After a full afternoon of vigorous swimming and diving we had only time for faspa and chores before we had to get ready to go to the evening church service. No one even thought of begging off with the excuse that a full afternoon in the hot sun was just too tiring. Maybe our parents reasoned that twice in church on Sunday would somehow offset the more profane nature of our afternoon activities.

None of us expected to visit the swimming hole during the week because we would be busy from morning to night running tractors, trucks, and combines or stacking bales on hot afternoons. We all looked forward to the next Sunday afternoon, when once again the shimmering, sunlit surface of Bragg's Puddle would beckon. Our mothers would once again feel constrained to hurry with dinner in order to forestall the inevitable blare of the horn that would announce the arrival of a vehicle, be it a stripped down Ford, a pick-up truck, or a family sedan. Even though all of this happened many years ago, I can still feel a tinge of anticipation when I think about making that first dive of the afternoon into the depths of Bragg's Puddle.

And There Was Light

There was darkness and then there was light. Both were things of great beauty. Looking back to my childhood, it now seems that the greater beauty was the almost total darkness that surrounded us when the last bit of twilight faded from the western sky. On moonless nights when the sky was clear we had a breathtaking, panoramic view of the heavens and often we sat outdoors on warm summer nights and watched the skies. Falling stars solicited from us a quick wish, and there was a time that I truly believed that the penny I found the next day came from some benevolent, celestial granter of wishes.

On cold winter nights we would emerge from the barn after chores were done and gaze at the star studded heavens. The stars glistened and twinkled in majestic splendor far above the snow-covered prairie. It seemed as if we, on our little farm, were the only inhabitants of a dark and awesome world. The windows of the seemingly distant farmhouse projected only a dim light from the one kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. The closest neighbors, whose farm was just across the field to the northwest, seemed even more distant and removed from our world. We were isolated by the darkness and our larger world would not emerge again until dawn.

Moonlit nights were less mysterious but opened greater vistas for the imagination. It seems that the moon played a more important role in our lives than it does today. We gazed at it with the naked eye and speculated about the "man in the moon" figure, wondering what it might represent. Calendars and almanacs were consulted regarding the position of the moon, and in the spring gardens were planted accordingly. Butchering was thought to be more successful at certain phases of the moon. When the quarter moon was in an upward position, we thought that the possibility of rain was diminished. There is no beauty greater than that of a snow covered prairie bathed in the light of a full moon. Often we would play outdoors in the snow late at night. Sometime we would gather at Lake View and skate on moonlit nights after lighting a huge bonfire on the ice.

Change, inevitable and welcome, came to Meade County after many years of expectant waiting. Rural electrification, which had come to many Kansas communities in the late 30's and throughout the 40's, finally came to bless the farms southeast of Meade. Prior to this, many farmers had installed their own electrical systems. The best and most efficient was the wind charger, which provided enough thirty-two volt electricity to quite adequately power a farm. The generator was mounted on a tall tower and the ever-present Kansas breeze turned the twin blades. Large glass batteries stood in rows on basement tables. These were the forerunners of the modern wind farm machines. Not only did this provide lighting, but it also provided power for electric milking machines and motors to run workshop tools.

We never progressed to the thirty-two volt system on our farm. We did have a small wind charger mounted on the roof of the house, which was capable of keeping a six -volt battery charged, unless we had several successive wind-less days. The six-volt battery gave us a rather dim light in several rooms of the house and powered a radio. The radio was of utmost importance, especially during the war years. Here we could keep up with news of the war, as well as receive the weather forecast, farm markets, and for my mother, the soap operas then prevalent on radio. The short wave band even made it possible for us to hear foreign broadcasts if the conditions were just right. On several occasions we listened to Adolph Hitler as he gave one of his infamous speeches during the war years. 

Radios, as other kinds of appliances, were in short supply during wartime. One summer, during a rather violent afternoon thunderstorm, lighting struck the antenna that was strung above the house. The current traveled in a direct line to the radio itself and it burst into flame. My father ran to the kitchen for a pan of water and quickly extinguished the fire. The damage, however, had been done. The repairman in Meade pronounced it a total loss. Fortunately, he had a used set in the back of his shop, and this little black box served us for the duration.

The six-volt system failed us soon after that, and to keep the radio running we had to take the battery into town to have it charged whenever it ran low. The wind charger on the roof was not replaced, and we reverted back to the use of the kerosene lamps in the house and the kerosene lantern, which provided a very weak light in the barn for nighttime chores.

The war ended in 1945 and it seemed that the R.E.A. (Rural Electric Association) would soon work its magic and bring power to all of our farms. In a flurry of activity, electricians went from farm to farm, installing wiring in homes, garages and barns, preparing them for the immanent arrival of this great wonder. Further evidence of progress was the installation of the tall posts along roadways that would soon hold the wires that would convey the electricity to the farms along the way.

The electricians came to our farm and did the necessary wiring. Outlets were placed in the garage and barn in the event that we would want to use electrically powered tools instead of the hand powered variety. I was especially anxious to see the day when I would not have to turn the cream separator by hand. The great day finally came. I do not remember the exact date, but it was in 1947. The lines began humming, as I now recall, late in the afternoon, and that evening, after the milking was done, I pushed the plug into the outlet, and the separator performed flawlessly. Instead of the old icebox, we now had a refrigerator, and a new model replaced the old radio.

Two yard lights eradicated the darkness on our farm. One was close to the house and gave light to the back yard and the area around the garage. The other light was in the barnyard, which made the nighttime attention to chores much simpler. Here, just south of the barn, we set up a basketball goal, and here I spent many wonderful evening hours shooting hoops and playing imaginary games. I would stay as long as I could until I would hear a call from the distant farmhouse. Often it would take numerous calls before I reluctantly put the basketball in the separator room and extinguished the light. Then I could attend to my homework by the light of a bright lamp, and on cold nights, put a little warmth in my cold bedroom with an electric heater. 

In 1947, light penetrated the darkness, and our lives were infinitely changed. The beauty of the night sky was somewhat diminished by the brightness of the two yard lights. To see the stars as before we now had to walk away from the lighted yard. The natural beauty, before taken for granted, was now more distant, not easily accessible. A lesser beauty, but significant, was the picturesque view we now had as we looked around us, keeping our gaze at ground level. Every farm for miles around was now visible, the yard lights casting a shining ray of light. We were not, after all, alone. We were one with our neighbors, even under the night sky. Now our gaze was less often upward and more often earthbound. As we had so eagerly anticipated, the darkness had been conquered. But as in all conquests, something of value was lost. 

I recall the first beauty with a sense of wonder whenever I have opportunity to view the night sky unimpeded by manufactured light. It carries me back to the back stoop of the farmhouse where we often sat on summer nights. The vastness of space and the mystery of the heavens gave us a deep and abiding sense of the presence of the Creator. Our neighbors seemed far away and God seemed close.

I recall the second beauty when I have opportunity to visit the Meade community and drive the country roads, recounting the friends and neighbors who inhabited the farmsteads when I was a boy. Many of those lights have now been extinguished but the memories linger on. The lights that brightened our yards proclaimed to all, that even in times of darkness we were present for each other.

The Cat's Meow

It used to be that every farm boy had to milk cows. It was not that many of us lived on large dairy farms with modern, state of the art facilities for milk production. Family farms had cows to supply the daily milk and cream for household use. Milk was also fed to the young calves and to the pigs, which were being fattened for market. It was an absolute certainty, like death and taxes, that the cows would have to be milked twice a day.

This job was always referred to as "doing the chores." This would include getting the cows from the pasture, putting feed into their feed troughs, and letting them come into the barn to find their designated stalls. Most of the time the cows were truly domesticated and easy to handle. Each of them had a name, and they always knew which stall to occupy after they were trained.

We never had an electric milking machine and so we had to milk "by hand." Generally there were three of us to do the milking and we would usually have at least ten cows to milk. The procedure was to take a clean three-gallon pail from the separator room in one hand, a three-legged milk stool in the other, and approach Daisy from the right rear. The stool was then placed next to her and you would sit with the bucket between your knees. For those not acquainted with a cow's anatomy, it would be helpful to explain that Daisy's udder had four teats. The object of the entire exercise was to empty the udder by squeezing the teats with a pulling motion until you were sure that the udder had been thoroughly emptied. Since there were four teats and you had only two hands, you usually worked on the two to your left first, and then finished with the two to your right.

All of this was pretty much routine and to have to do this twice a day was, for a young boy, a somewhat unexciting task. There were, of course, times when the routine was interrupted. In the summertime it was flies. Flies loved to congregate in barns and they also loved to gather on the backs of cows. They would bite the cows and the cows were, of course, equipped with a defensive instrument, which was known as a tail. They were extremely adept at constantly swinging this lethal weapon back and forth in an effort to sweep away the pesky flies. If you were seated in the position described above it was inevitable that you would be under constant bombardment. A slap in the face was irritating and could be painful.

A "slop" in the face with a tail laden with fresh cow manure was especially hard to accept. A cow's tail was sometimes thus fortified in the Spring when the fresh, green wheat on which she had been grazing brought on diarrheic symptoms. This often resulted in a verbal diatribe by the milker, directed mostly at the cow, but also inclusive of the whole wretched business of having to do "the chores." If the cow was insulted by any of this she mostly kept her feelings to herself. Sometimes, however, the cow would respond by perversely raising her leg and neatly placing her foot in the milk bucket. Then you were faced with a two-fold dilemma: First you had to figure out how to get the foot out of the pail. When you would finally persuade her to allow you to lift the foot from the pail you had to decide how to dispose of the milk which was now not fit for human consumption. At times like this, it was the pigs that got an extra supply in their troughs.

There were other diversions for a young boy bored with his task. A skilled milker can extract milk from the cow with quite a bit of force. My mother was a skilled milker. When she began her task with an empty bucket between her knees, the sound of the milk hitting the bottom of the bucket resounded throughout the barn like a symphony tuning up before a performance. I tried to develop a similar technique, and it was gratifying to hear the milk spatter against the pail's bottom, and as it filled, to see a head of foam build up in the bucket. But alas, I would too often digress. I soon discovered that by turning the cow's teat away from the pail one could aim the stream of milk out into space and shoot the stream clear across the barn. This was especially effective if you had friends over and they came to watch you milk. You could, without warning, direct a stream of fresh, warm, whole milk at anyone within range.

We always had numerous cats. They were always present at milking time, because they knew that eventually they would get some fresh, warm milk in their dishes. They would congregate in front of the door to the separator room, and generally make a nuisance of themselves. But the presence of the cats at milking time presented the possibility of a very enjoyable diversion for the young milker, which would test his milking skills to the limit. It did not take long to engage a cat's interest by squirting one of them with a stream of milk. At first, the reaction was to retreat a safe distance and lick the affected area. Upon tasting the fresh milk, it was not difficult to lure them back for more. The trick now was to aim the stream just above the cat so that it would have to stretch a bit to make contact. It was not long till a cat could be trained to walk about on its hind legs in pursuit of an illusive stream of milk. To keep the cat interested, it was advisable to occasionally aim directly at its mouth, thus restoring its confidence in the integrity of the game.

And so it was that not all was work and no play. Jack was not always a dull boy as a result, and as for the cats, well, they were generally well fed and they really did seem to think that they were the "cat's meow"!

The Medicine Men

Life on the prairies of Southwestern Kansas in the 1930's and 40's had its hazards and its illnesses. Accidents happened and people succumbed to various maladies, too numerous to mention. Older folks did not have Medicare to fall back on, and almost no one that I knew of had health insurance. Most babies were born at home under the supervision of a local practitioner and many doctors still made house calls

I became aware of an interest in medical care at an early age because my father was always looking for relief from pain and hoping for a cure for whatever ailed him. I remember that there was a great variety of medical advice and treatment available, outside of the regular medical field. Kansas, after all, had the infamous Dr. Brinkley and the Meade community was visited regularly by one Dr. Amend. My father was greatly interested in Dr. Brinkley and listened to his radio harangues although I don't think that he ever tried any of his snake oil.

Dr. Amend had a large following in the community and would come to Meade and set up for business at the Palace Hotel. His equipment, as I recall it now, consisted of several mysterious machines plugged into an electrical outlet. Everyone was pretty much convinced that his was state of the art medicine. He did seem to have state of the art diagnostic tools and his manner was such that people had great confidence in him. I was taken to him somewhat regularly, and was intrigued by the electrodes that were connected to parts of my body. He would twist some dials and watch intently as the needles pointed at numbers on his control panel. It was believed that he could diagnose any and all potential or present medical problems and then prescribe a reliable cure.

On one occasion his machine informed him that I was infested with worms. This was, indeed, bad news! The cure came in the form of a powder made from sage leaves. This was, as I soon discovered, worse news! We were not strangers to sagebrush in Southwestern Kansas and it was a surprise to discover that herein would lay a cure for such a disgusting malady. He provided me with a finely ground powder made from the leaves of this lowly bush. This was to be mixed with hot water and the instructions were to drink a cup of this mysterious brew every evening. If there had, in fact, been a resident worm population, surely this vile beverage would have made a quick end to these invaders on its first application. But the instructions were to drink it every evening for six weeks. Even though I dreaded it, I performed the nasty chore each evening and eventually was pronounced cured.

The Mennonites in the Meade community had their favorite medicine man near by and available twenty-four hours a day. You could go to him or he would come to you if the situation warranted. He was, in a sense, the medical patron saint for the populace. He was greatly revered and his opinion greatly respected. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that he was beloved by the adult population and feared by all children. This man's name was Will Schlichting. He came by his trade honestly in that he came from a long line of "knoake doktas" (bone doctors) or sometimes referred to as "knibble doktas" (massage doctors.) There were several of the Schlichtings, all from the same family. Some Meade folks would travel to Corn, Oklahoma to see the one who practiced there, evidently thinking that to drive out of state was an effort to secure the best in "knibble" care. They were referred to as doctors, but in reality they were farmers with no specific training except for what they had learned from their forbears. They did seem to have a knack for righting certain wrongs. Families would visit regularly, and every one would receive an adjustment, much like is given by chiropractors today. They also had a variety of interesting medicines and pills that they would offer as a cure for a perceived ailment. I have wondered where they procured these colorful liquids and what medicinal qualities they might have had.

The Dr. Schlichting that we visited lived northeast of Meade. It seemed a long trip to me, as we followed Highway 54 through Fowler and then turned north and crossed a bridge over the Rock Island tracks a few miles east of Fowler. We then drove several more miles north and a little east and came to his farm. I do not know whether he kept office hours, took appointments, or whether we just trusted to luck that he would be home. I do remember that it was a frightening thing to fall into the hands of this seemingly gruff man. His movements were deft and quick, as he twisted your head first one way and then the other. As a result of this violent treatment, your neck was pronounced "back in place." He would then proceed to do, what seemed to a child, life threatening things to your back. The ominous cracking sounds that accompanied his violent assault on your body were regarded as proof that everything out of alignment was coming back together. I know of few ill effects as a result of these encounters and many claimed that his hands had healing powers. My schoolmate, David Loewen, reported to us once that he briefly escaped from the doctor's clutches on one occasion by jumping out of a window and hiding in the barn. He was, however, soon retrieved and brought back to the treatment table where the doctor may well have applied just a bit more pressure than might be expected.

It was my misfortune to fracture my wrist in a tumble I took at school. I was only a first grader and I foolishly volunteered my body for an experiment that the older boys thought up. The township road that bordered the schoolyard to the south was being improved and a rather deep ditch had been excavated. The construction crew had left a large plank on the ground next to the ditch. The older boys thought it would be of interest to try an experiment based on the theory that a catapult could be used to launch an object into space. A large plank, left behind by the road crew, lay just at hand. The plank was placed so that half of it extended over the edge of the ditch. The procedure was quite simple. A small body (mine) was placed on the landward end and a large body (a big eighth-grader) took a short run and landed squarely on the end suspended over the chasm. I was catapulted flawlessly, high into the sky, had a pleasant enough flight, but found the landing quite undesirable. Every one present heard the sharp "crack" as the wrist bone broke cleanly in two. I was escorted with great ceremony into our teacher's presence, and upon observing the state of my very limp and useless arm, she took immediate action. She placed me securely in the front seat of her Model A Ford, laid a book on my lap upon which to rest my arm, and we traveled north the two miles to our farm. Every slight bump on the dirt road added to my pain and misery.

Upon my arrival at home, my parents knew exactly what to do. There was no 911 but there was Dr. Schlichting. No other alternative was considered. I was hustled into the back seat of our 1933 Chevy and we were on our way. We arrived at his farm about an hour later, only to find that he had gone to Minneola on farm business. His wife assured my father that he could easily be found somewhere on Main Street. My father drove to Minneola and there, just as predicted, he found the good doctor, told him of the situation. In another hour they were back to set my throbbing wrist. By this time I had experienced several hours of pain, and the dreadful thoughts of what was to come were of no comfort. The doctor took one look at the pathetic looking appendage, set me in a chair, and instructed my father to stand behind me and hold me tight. He took my arm and held it few seconds as if to contemplate the exact moment to act. He then gave a quick but mighty pull, putting the broken bone back into alignment. It happened so quickly that I had time for only one good hearty scream. A great sense of relief flooded over me, as I realized that the worst was behind me. A cast was expertly applied to the arm and I was pronounced whole. I returned to school and in the subsequent six weeks tried to eat and write with my left hand. By the time I got the hang of that, the cast had come off and all things were normal again.

Research and advanced technology have changed medical care immensely over the last sixty years. It did seem a lot simpler in those days with no insurance premiums to pay, no paperwork to fill out, and no worries about the system running out of money. Dr. Schlichting would have, and often did, treat those who came to him for nothing if they were unable to pay. An incorrect diagnosis or a botched attempt at setting a broken bone did not result in a lawsuit. That would have been unthinkable. That's just the way things were.