A Little Family Tree ID

This is so that ensuing generations will know who the writer is and so be able to locate others in the following stories. 

I am identified on the Family Tree in" Roots and Wings" as *Debra Lynn Heinzerling. Born 4/10/1953.

Maternal grandparents: Hazel Marie Bishop Wade 1900-1992

                                  Percival Arthur Wade 1895 - 1960

 


Paternal grandparents:  

Louise Bingham Heinzerling 1909 - 1958

                                   
William James Heinzerling  1904 - 1984

Parents: Margaret Ellen Wade Heinzerling 1929 - 2010

            James Merlin Heinzerling 1928 - 1999

Siblings:  Kay Ellen Heinzerling Reister 1950 

             James Alan Heinzerling 1951

             *Deborah Heinzerling Geelsdottir 1953

             Terry Michael Heinzerling 1958

             Tammy Jo Heinzerling Kopecky Skaare 1962

             Jill Louise Heinzerling Van't Hul 1968

My Gramma Wade (Hazel Marie Bishop Wade 1900-1992)

Pictured above are Mom, holding Jimmy; Mom's grandmother, Belle Bishop, with her hands on Kay's shoulders; and Gramma holding me. It's August, 1953.

My Gramma Wade is my hero. I believe she was a truly remarkable woman who overcame many hardships in her 92 years. I admire her, though she had a few prickly habits that I’d like to avoid.

Me and Grampa Wade, 1953.
He died when I was 7 and I have almost no memories of him
(Notice desk behind him. Look for it in a 1982 photo of Gramma below.)

Gramma and her siblings. Back: Brothers Ray, Lester, and Paul Bishop.

Seated: Gramma and sister Mona Bishop.

In Wings & Roots, Gramma told stories of her younger self and her predecessors. I’d like to add some that I recall from my memories of her. The first one is:

Family Names

Gramma was a feminist long before it was a known political position. In about 1980, my little sister Jill, Gramma and I went to Iowa to visit her daughter and our aunt, Rita, in Des Moines.  Conversation on the trip was the first time I learned that Gramma was opposed to women accepting their husband’s names. I was shocked! Such a thing was unheard of in quiet, conservative, patriarchal South Dakota! Gramma had thought that even before she got married herself.

 Mom, Gramma holding me, Great Gramma Bishop, Rita Belle Wade Wood 
(Mom's sister)  .Jimmy, Kay, cousin Donna Wood and Beverly Wood.

Gramma explained further one evening at Rita’s. “It is simply more sensible,” she said, “to combine the two names. Otherwise, following women genealogically is often quite difficult.”

Well. What a surprise. Gramma went on, “Your grandfather and I should have created one new name for the two of us and our children. Our name should have become, ‘Biwade.’ A combination of ‘Bishop’, and ‘Wade.’ “ (Probably not hyphenated, or she would have said so. Gramma was thorough.)

Actually, it makes a lot of sense. They first people I knew who actually did that were graduate school friends who combined “Warp” and “Maeker”, to name themselves, “Warpmaeker.” That was in 1998. They were only 70+ years behind Gramma.

Let’s see, that would have made my mother - Wadeling? And Rita might have been Wawood. Well, maybe some of those need a little work, but Gramma was willing.

Gramma never let herself be circumscribed by conventional thinking or customs. She was her own woman, and looked at life that way.

Gramma, holding me, and her grandchildren.
From the top: Donna Wood, Bev Wood, Jimmy, Kay.

As you can clearly see in these photos, Gramma adored her grandchildren. What wonderful knowledge!

Hardships

Gramma’s life included the 1930s - The Great Depression, The Dust Bowl. She was living in Iowa at that time, with three children and a semi-invalid husband.

Grampa Wade served in World War I as a machine gunner. That war was marked by widespread use of trenches. To attack trenches, various types of hazardous, or even deadly gasses were used as weapons. Grampa survived one such attack of either chlorine or mustard gas. However, his health was permanently compromised, so the heaviest burdens of raising the children, caring for Grampa, maintaining the home, and making money all fell on Gramma. What seems like such an overwhelming load is something she managed with grace and an extraordinary stock of perseverance.

During The Great Depression, men frequently wandered about the country, searching for a way to live and perhaps, find value for their lives again. (There were no safety nets of any kind at that time. Churches and other charities did what they could, but it was far from enough.)

Hoboes caught rides illegally on freight trains.

 The men traveling about the USA, called hoboes, were absolutely poverty-stricken, and looked it. (Today’s homeless people are a good example.) They begged handouts or pledged to work for food at the homes they passed.  Many were illiterate, or spoke a different language, usually Eastern or Northern European. Hoboes created a system of signs to indicate which places treated them decently and respectfully. (Keep in mind that unemployment hovered around 30%, much higher in some areas.)

Hoboes were generally uneducated and so used symbols to communicate with others coming after them. The images were carved into gates or fences around the homes. One of their signs was a cat. It signified a kind woman whom they could count on to treat them respectfully and offer them something.

Gramma’s yard gate was carved with the image of a cat.

Even though they had little, Gramma always managed to put together some kind of sandwich for them. Shooing away struggling fellow human beings, as many did, was not an option that Gramma even considered. Helping those in need was simply a part of her faith, a part of herself.

School Teacher

When Gramma began teaching, prior to 1920, she rode a horse to a one room school. In the winter, Gramma had to get there early enough to start the fire in the potbellied stove and put the drinking water bucket on top so the ice would melt. She used every inch of her five foot height to face down boys who were near her age, up to a foot taller, and 100 pounds heavier. Gramma had no principal or superintendent for help with discipline issues. It was all hers to manage. Gramma was indomitable.

Gramma cared about her students, cared enough to be tough with them, to have high expectations, and to push them to meet those standards. Gramma did most of her teaching in elementary schools. Her students regularly won spelling contests, speaking and writing competitions, and other events.

When Gramma was in her 60s, she coached junior high boys basketball in the tiny town of Bancroft, SD. (There is no longer a school there.) A woman coaching boys on any level was highly unusual, but not for Gramma. She emphasized fundamentals, and when those boys were in high school they amassed outstanding records and won two state championships.

Grief and Anger

Grampa Wade died in 1960, when Gramma was 60 years old. I have almost no memories of him. Gramma went on without him for 32 years. I don’t believe she ever dated or had any kind of romantic relationship in those years. I wonder if she took, “Till death do us part,” to include her death also?

I can’t really say what Gramma’s coping mechanisms were. She was notoriously tight-lipped about such things. She didn’t talk about her inner life, she demonstrated it. What I saw was her keeping very busy. Her faith was a central part of her life, and I think that went a long way in sustaining her.

When Grampa died, Gramma was teaching in Highmore, SD. Gramma continued to teach until she was 70, when she was forced to retire. At that time, she was teaching in St. Lawrence Grade School, in St. Lawrence, SD.  My siblings and I attended that school.

Gramma continued to do fine needlework, write, and be politically active. In 1978 I wrote a continuing education paper for history credits, about trench warfare in World War I. I used Gramma as a resource, and she was very good. She gave me a copy of one of the letters she had written to the federal government regarding WWI benefits and payments.

Mom's aunt Dorothy and first husband Ralph in his WWI uniform.

Gramma remained quite angry about that. The enlistees of WWI included Grampa. They were to receive a certain amount of pay and bonuses when they came back home. Those benefits never materialized. If you check out WWI history, you will find information about the WWI Bonus Marchers. They were WWI veterans who were forced to march on Washington, DC, to get the money that was due them. They still didn’t get it. In fact, they were chased out by the US Military. (Gramma and Grampa did not personally take part in the march, though Gramma said she supported it.)

Gramma believed that an individual ought to keep her promises. It angered her very much that the government made such promises to men, in exchange for them risking their very lives, and then reneged. Some of the energy of Gramma’s grief was turned to that cause. I’m sure, with Grampa’s illness and the terrible struggles of The Great Depression, that money was sorely needed.

Many of the things Gramma said and did, reflected a healthy level of anger. She lived in situations and times that called for anger: Unfairness, dishonesty, sexism. These and more made Gramma feel angry. In her wisdom, Gramma put the energy of that anger to use in constructive ways. She worked to make changes in those systems. Gramma engaged the girls in her classes, encouraging them to reject limits on their futures. She was politically active via letter-writing and talking with neighbors. Gramma was never afraid to speak up.

One of the most valuable lessons I learned from Gramma is to take the energy of anger, which can too frequently become destructive, and use it in constructive practices and behaviors. It has served me well.

The Intimidator

Gramma had The Look. It felt like death to be on the receiving end of The Look! With that one Look, Gramma could inspire fear, shame, terror, a sense of utter failure. Words were unnecessary. She had exacting standards, and we grandchildren, though beloved by her, were also expected to do our best to measure up. Gramma could be so stern. There isn’t much more need be said about that.

Appearances

One of the interesting contradictions of Gramma is that, unconventional as she was, she was concerned with outside appearances.

Christmas, 1982, at the Heinzerling place.
(Same desk as Grampa Wade photo, 30 years later. Still around in 2000s.)

I’m not talking about dressing fashionably, or wearing the right clothes. But Gramma insisted on being nicely dressed, wearing clean, appropriate clothing. She felt it was very important to speak in a pleasant voice. As Gramma got older, she developed some balance issues that sometimes affected her walking. She might veer out of a straight line. She frequently refused to go out in public because she was afraid she might stagger, and onlookers would think that she was drunk.


Gramma was very much a teetotaler. She felt strongly that alcohol was a harmful thing that ought to be avoided. I never asked her, but I’m guessing she supported Prohibition. On the other hand, Gramma had no problem with tobacco smoking. She claimed to enjoy the smell of a good cigar.

My parents hid any alcohol when Gramma visited. There was little alcohol in our home anyway. There were usually a couple of pint bottles of liquor hidden in Dad’s sock drawer. (Yes, we children snooped whenever the opportunity arose.) Sometimes there was beer in the refrigerator. It was always hidden when Gramma came, until the 1970s or 80s when her grandchildren, including me, drank beer too. The turning point for me was seeing her son, Wes, drinking beer in front of her. Of course, he was at least in his 30s at the time. After that, beer made is illicit appearance in our refrigerator, and stayed there when Gramma visited.

1980

Gramma and I

Gramma was very strong-willed. So am I. As you might guess, we had clashes. Mom used to say that it was, in part, because we were so much alike. Gramma believed that there were certain conventions one ought to adhere to. I believed no one was going to tell me what to do. Mix + shake well = conflict.

We were both teachers, both athletes, both feminists, both politically active, both averse to restrictions placed on us by others, both intelligent and well-educated.

I’m sure it’s clear by now, that I have great love and respect for my Gramma Wade. I wish she could have been a little less intense on some occasions. Some flexibility here and there would have been nice. I wish I had been less stubborn and more open to her hard-earned wisdom. I am grateful beyond words to be her granddaughter, to be the beneficiary of such a strong and powerful legacy.

Gramma was what she was - Complex, determined, smart, unconventional, wise, incredibly hard-working, contradictory, loving, short-tempered. I loved her. I love her still. 

G.A.R. Cemetery, Miller, SD

Mom: Margaret Ellen Wade Heinzerling

Nobody could outwork Mom, nobody. Most people knew better than to try. At 5‘ 2“, on her best days, Mom was the smallest in the family. Physically was the only way she was the smallest.

Mothering

In May of 1949, Mom became pregnant with Kay. Then Jimmy was born. In April of 1953 Debby was born. In just under 48 months Mom carried three full-term pregnancies and gave birth to three healthy children. Holy smoke!

Now remember, for the first 11 years of her motherhood, Mom did not have indoor plumbing, except for a kitchen sink. Terry was born in 1958, meaning that for 3 of those 11 years, she had FOUR children to care for, the oldest being eight year old Kay. And then there was the broken ankle on top of all that! She broke her ankle in 1958 while she was pregnant with Terry, who was born in September.

In the meantime, Dad had the farm to run, plus helping, and being helped by his father and brother Larry, on their nearby farms. So he had little time in the house. I don’t know how Mom cared for us children, washed laundry, cooked and cleaned the home. Remember, there was also a garden to tend, chickens to feed, eggs to gather, broiler chickens to dress for eating and canning. And the ankle.

I remember some anger and impatience on Mom’s part. That’s understandable. The surprise is that she had the patience to allow any of us to survive! As Mom sometimes said, “I just about meet myself coming and going.” It was nice to see how she was able to be more patient and take more time with Tammy and Jill. She had help in the form of us older siblings, and she wasn’t so harried herself.

There were times of playfulness in those early days. Since I was so young then, there are certainly some I don’t remember, but there was playing dress up in the antenna room at the Trautman place. Jim and Kay and I put on old clothes that were stored there, and, after Mom conducted some sorting of what we could wear, and what we could not, she enjoyed our “outfits.” I seem to remember a fox collar. Real fox from the 1940s. The head was on it and everything! It was creepy and fascinating, all at once.

For a well-remembered example of Mom’s more fun side with her children, read the “Egg Shampoo” story that also appears in this collection.

Like everyone, and maybe more especially mothers, there are things she would have liked to change. Fewer children might have been at the top of her list, though she dearly loved every one of her children. Mom used to tell of her childhood hopes for her adult life. She repeated this to many people:

“Rita (older sister) wanted to marry a farmer and have lots of children. I wanted to marry a businessman, live in town, and have just a few children.”

Mom did not laugh as she spoke with a wry twist to her lips. While she married the farmer and bore six children, Rita married the businessman, lived in Des Moines, Iowa, and had two children. It did appear to be an unpleasant irony for Mom. Life seldom turns out the way we plan or expect, and instead, is full of surprises. Mom adjusted.

I wonder how much our poverty bore on Mom? Perhaps not so much, since her life had been marked by a consistent level of poverty. Perhaps one of the reasons she wanted to marry the businessman was for financial security? I’m quite sure money was not the motivating factor of Mom’s life, but struggling to make ends meet takes a toll on anyone. Poverty might have been one of the forces that fed her sense of insecurity.

Mom was not verbally or physically demonstrative. There was no hugging or kisses on the cheek, except between Mom and Dad. No one said, “I love you, you mean a lot to me,” etc. Mom showed her love as best she could in the effort she put into providing for the ones she loved. There was the garden and farm, cooking, cleaning, tending to our minor injuries, and sewing or mending our clothing.

Farm Work

As Mom grew older her temper improved, though her appetite for work remained as strong as ever. As the children demanded less of her time, Mom was able to work outside more. She liked that. She often mentioned being a tomboy as a child, and liking to be outdoors. Mom was a skilled field worker. She could operate any tractor and complete any field work, with the exception of some harvesting machines like the combine.

Especially in harvest times, Mom worked in the fields. She usually drove a truck hauling grain in from the field, or a tractor pulling a wagon. Mom complained endlessly about being short. She complained when she couldn’t reach cupboards in the kitchen. She complained about how hard it was to get on and off tractors, in and out of trucks, with her short legs. It was a legitimate complaint, and as us children got older, we joked about it, while we all helped her with the getting up and down as much as possible. We got her a stool for the kitchen. In the fields we tried to give her the job using the vehicle that was the easiest to ascend and descend.  Even though Mom did complain about “these darn short legs”, she did not stop working.

Being that short was a handicap in many ways when it came to field work. Shorter limbs mean less leverage. Operating the tractors of those days required strength. Some tractors did not have power steering. It took strength to push mechanical brakes, shift clutches, operate loaders, unplug machinery. Hooking up and unhooking trailers, wagons, and other implements behind the tractor or truck was even more difficult. I am 5‘ 10“, Jim is 6‘ 3“, Terry is 6‘, Dad was 5‘ 11“. Mom had a tougher job due to her “darn short legs”, and she didn’t quit.

Corral Gates

One summer day in the early 1980s, Mom and I needed to collect portable corral gates. We were going to work cattle the next morning, and needed to get set up. Dad was struggling with depression at that time, Terry was doing some field work that could not wait, and Jim was living in Colorado by then, so the job fell to Mom and I.

The gates were used in different places on the farm. They were steel tube gates, about 10 feet long and 5 feet high. They were very heavy and they had been padlocked in place by the local electric  cooperative when they put electrical transmission lines on our land. (The coop put up the gates to give them access while they were in the process of building. Once they were done, the gates were ours.)

We took Old Red, a 1968 Ford F-100 pickup, to do the job. (More on Old Red in the Cars, Cars, Cars, portion.)  I drove and we went to each location to get the gate. Here is what we had to do to accomplish that task:

We parked Old Red close to the gate, and began with a four pound hammer and big fence wire cutters. (The keys for the padlocks had disappeared.) Mom put the cutters on the padlocked lightweight chain, gritted her teeth, and held it in place on the link as hard as she could. I swung that hammer hard down on the cutter. Each blow shook Mom’s whole body. But she only reset, and I swung again. It usually took 3 - 4 blows to break the chain, and Mom’s teeth rattled each time.

Next I lifted the hinged end of the gate off the pins while Mom held onto the other end, keeping it upright. We dragged the gate to the tailgate of the pickup. I heaved the end of the gate up into the box, while Mom pushed from the end, until we both had the gate in Old Red as far as it would go. We picked up about 10 gates that way.

The sun was bright and the land was quiet, except for the blows of the hammer, the grunts of our efforts, and our hard breaths. We were wet with sweat, but kept our spirits up with chatter as we went from gate to gate. I don’t recall what we talked about, it probably wasn’t important, but it was a time I cherish because we were a team. We worked together, supported one another, and got a very difficult job accomplished through our own dogged efforts. I am still proud of us both, but maybe especially Mom. She loved that farm. It was hers at least as much as Dad’s, and she was willing to do whatever it took to be successful there.

I felt tired, and I was young and strong and healthy at that time. Mom was in her mid fifties. She was rightfully exhausted. Mom had insisted on participating in that big chore, not only because she was always willing to work, but because she was very protective of Dad. In the times that Dad was struggling with depression, Mom was vigilant for ways to ease his load.

Gardening

It was a blessing for the family that Mom and Dad knew how to squeeze a dollar until it screamed for mercy! We were kept fed, clothed and warm due to those efforts. It made sense to buy a pack of pea seeds in the spring, since one single pea planted resulted in dozens of fresh peas to eat.

We always had a garden. The first one I remember was at the Trautman place. There was a space on the backside of the house, between it and the trees, a shelter belt. I don’t remember what was planted there, other than tomatoes. We gave Mom plenty of grief over those tomatoes.

Kay, Jimmy and I loved tomatoes. In fact, we loved going out to the garden and snitching tomatoes. We took them into the shelterbelt of trees behind the garden, where we could eat our stolen booty secretly. We reveled in that, except for one problem: Salt.

We ate them like apples, but we had to have salt on them. Take a bite, sprinkle salt on tomato. Take a bite, shake a little more salt on. So we grabbed the salt shaker off the table and took it out with us.

That was our undoing. It wasn’t that mom was hostile to us snacking on tomatoes. But we left the salt shaker out there almost every time! Next thing mom knew, it was meal time - and no salt shaker. We had to go find it!

But many times we couldn’t find where we left it. Tomatoes might grow on vines, but salt shakers did not. Our joyful, but nefarious ways, were brought to an end.

After we moved to the Heinzerling place in 1961, we had a bigger garden. It was near the house at first too, until Dad had a water well drilled about a half mile away in the 1970s. The garden was moved there and it was big! As we children got older and able, we helped quite a bit with the gardening. I won’t say we did it with good temper. We could complain with the best of any children trying to evade work. There was planting, weeding and harvesting to be done.

We lived off that garden most of the winter, in addition to the fresh vegetables throughout the summer. Green beans, peas, carrots, radishes, lettuce, beets, and lots of tomatoes. There was sweet corn too; so much that Dad planted it in a corn field! The corn was delicious though.

Playing Games

Mom was quite competitive. She played every card game, every table game, every dice game - to win!! (See "The Heinzerling Family Game.) Sometimes Mom got quite grumpy over losses. She loved the card game, Nertz, and wanted to play frequently. Usually I won. It got to the point that I started to decline her invitation to play due to her sore loser ways.

On the other hand, Mom helped me practice for softball endlessly. It was usually after dinner at noon, after dishes were done, that I asked her to help me. I gave her a glove, picked up mine and a ball, and we went out in the yard next to the house on the south side.

Mom used to play quite a bit of softball when she was younger, and she had learned to played without a glove. She did starting using a glove because I threw pretty hard. She stood in the shade of the elm in the southwest corner of the yard, while I stood in the sun east of her. Mom insisted on being in the shade and I didn't care, as long as I got to play.

Mom threw the ball underhand on the ground toward me so I could practice fielding. (I played 3rd base.) The grass was clumpy crabgrass, an acceptable lawn at the time, so the ball took plenty of odd bounces. Mom put lots of spin on it too, which added to the difficulty.

I fielded each one, and threw it back to her as if she was a 1st baseman. I didn't throw as hard as I could or did in a game, but there was still plenty of power behind that ball. Mom caught just about every one of them. And she flinched just about every time. I always appreciated the time she gave me.

I loved every minute of it. I loved playing softball, or any kind of ball. I'm pretty sure that's why Mom agreed to my plea, "Throw me some grounders Mom. Please?" I would have kept it up for hours, but after perhaps 20 - 30 minutes, Mom was done. Her left hand, the one that caught my throws, got sore. Still, she spent time on many hot summer days standing under that elm tree throwing me tricky grounders.

The Ranch Cafe

Mom and granddaughter Cody, 1983.

Mom began working at the Ranch Cafe in Miller in about 1984 or 5, which means that she was in her late 50s. It was the first time she had worked off the farm since she taught school in the late 1940s. Mom did it because the 1980s were a very bad time for farmers. President Reagan signed some congressional bills that made things very difficult. The farm was not enough to make ends meet, and Dad was in the throes of a serious depression. So Mom went to work.

Mom wasn't the only family farmer who had to find work off the farm so that the bills could be paid and the family could eat. It was a very difficult time for Mom and Dad. (See "Dad" for more on this topic.)

Mom became a short-order cook, or fry cook. I'm not sure exactly what her title was. She worked from 2:00pm to closing at 10:00, Tuesday through Saturday. The Ranch was a small cafe. I think there were perhaps 10 tables. Food was typical burgers, fries, salads, steaks. Mom learned quickly, and became a popular team with the waitress. (That's what servers were called at that time in Miller.)

I don't remember the names of the owners, a married heterosexual couple, but the wife was in charge of the cafe and worked the morning shift. She wasn't all that pleasant and friendly. Mom was. Mom was a nice person. She was warm and friendly with the customers, and business picked up considerably on her shift. Mom worked hard, she was fast, her food was good, her attitude was too. People liked coming in to see her.

At the end of the day, when Mom came home, she was exhausted. She had that bad ankle that she broke in 1958. It troubled her the rest of her life. It swelled and was painful after being on her feet for so long. Mom gave all she had in defense of the farm. In the end, it wasn't enough. (See "Farm Sale" for more about that.)

Baby Whisperer

Mom was magical with babies, including infants who had never seen her before. Mom was able to work the same magical effect on babies who were known to be fussy, whose mother's were completely surprised by their baby's response.

She held the baby with both hands, the baby lying on her forearms, tilted up, looking directly into Mom's face. Mom had a wonderful, gentle, loving smile on her face; an expression of complete pleasure with the baby. She talked to the baby in a special voice. There was a certain quality, timber, tone, that immediately got the baby's attention. Mom made some movements with her head as she spoke.

Babies were mesmerized by her. It was startling to see. Wide-eyed mothers said things like: "I've never seen him behave like that before. . . .I can't believe she quit crying. . . How do you do that?!"

I discovered accidently, that sometimes I can do that too. I give all credit for that to Mom. It must be a genetic thing. It is definitely a magical thing.

Mother

Mom was not verbally or physically demonstrative. There was no hugging or kisses on the cheek, except between Mom and Dad. No one said, “I love you, you mean a lot to me, etc.” Mom showed her love and caring in the effort she put into providing for the ones she loved. There was the garden and farm, cooking, cleaning, tending to our minor injuries, and sewing or mending our clothing.

Personal conversations weren't something that Mom tended to indulge in, especially as she entered her 40s, until she got much older. She was well taught about personal reticence by her mother. Such behavior has its pluses and minuses.She and Dad had some strong disagreements, but never aired them. I wondered about that as I got older, and asked Mom about why they didn't discuss things. I got one of the most personal answers I heard from her. "We are afraid we'd say something that would hurt the other one. So we just separate, go for walks. When we get back it's okay." It seemed to work for them.

Dealing with Dad's depression was very stressful for Mom. She worked very hard to make things easier for him whenever possible, and held some deep resentments toward Dad's father. (Read more about him in "Dad".)

As Mom's stress levels rose, her eating struggles escalated. Mom never cared for the taste of alcohol and so was not tempted, so she learned to use food to bring about some peace. Mom had issues with weight most of her life, sliding up and down the weight scale. Before her life ended, she had made peace with her body.

Mom was a complex and interesting person. She could be confounding, frustrating, thoughtful and courageous. She was all those things and many more. I am certain she would be the first to say, "Don't saint-ify me. There are some things I'd love to take back, and others I wish I'd done more of.  I made some big mistakes and I did some things really well."

"I made some big mistakes and I did some things really well." I think that's an excellent epitaph. Thanks, Mom.

Trautman Stories - The Race to the House

Tin cars, or they might have been lead, were our toys of choice. When they were new they were brightly colored,  2 - 3 inches long and perfectly car-shaped.


We made roads in the dirt for them. There were fields, towns, streets, highways. We included farms, with their roads and barns and houses. After all the construction, it was time to start driving. 


We played on our knees, pushing our cars around the setting as we went from place to place. Since our map consisted on lines in the dirt, it was too easy to obliterate a road with our feet, while pivoting on our knees to make a sharp turn. We always pledged to be very careful of our brand new subdivision. I was frequently the most destructive of us three.


I got the worst cars, the oldest cars. I got the ones with the chipped paint, bent wheels, and dented sides. I was resentful of that. Since Kay and Jimmy were bigger than me, my subservient position didn’t change.

I complained to mom, who admonished Jimmy and Kay to play fair. That lasted until mom was out of sight.


One summer day, Jimmy and I were playing cars near the outhouse, which was 15 feet from the house. It was a hot summer day. The sun made the fine dirt feel soft and warm. It ground into our knees, elbows and hands. It was worn into our clothing, dungarees* and shirts. The flies buzzed, and a breeze blew. Our dog, Tag, lay in the shade of the outhouse, snoozing quietly in the heat.


Our tableau was built, mind-numbing in its completely senseless traffic patterns. The only sound was the noise of our car engines, made by the blubbing of our lips from the air we blew out. That was interupted by our occasional comment relating to where we were going and what we were doing.


There were favorite excursions, but even if I called one first, Jimmy took it away from me.   “No. I’m going to Dairy Queen. You have to stay home. You’re the mom.”


He wasn’t playing fair, and I got madder and madder. Revenge was in my heart, as I contemplated how to get him back. 


I had the very ugliest car in my hand, which proved to be a source of inspiration. In addition to its ugliness, it was also the heaviest car. Hmm. I could throw it at him, then run to the house to mom’s protection. I was nearer to the house than him, but he ran faster than me. 


I threw it! It hit Jimmy on the top of the head. His 1/2 inch long haircut clearly showed a few drops of blood. Oh no!


I jumped up and ran as hard as I could. I had drawn blood. He was really going to kill me now! I scream for mom every step I took!


A new thought entered my head: It was three steps up to the door of the house, and the steps were at a right angle to the direction we were taking. I had seen Jimmy skip the steps and jump right to the top step. I had never done so. I could hear Jimmy pounding along behind me, so close.


If I tried to jump directly to the top step, I might not make hit. Then I would hit my shins on the step and that would really hurt. Plus, Jimmy would definitely catch me and beat me up.


If I ran to the bottom step and then up the three as fast as possible, Jimmy would still probably catch me and exact his revenge. There were no good choices.


I went to the bottom step, figuring a small chance was better than the certain defeat of trying to jump, failing, smacking my shins, and getting beaten up!


I hit one step, then two, then — there he was. Jimmy, at the top step. He had leaped successfully. He had a nasty grin on his red face and met me with hands out, fingers crooked.


Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! All the time I’m screaming for mommy! 


The entire experience was a lose/lose for me. When mom arrived, she noticed the scratch and blood on Jimmy’s head. He told on me. He told what happened. I tried to explain about how he always took the best cars and didn’t play fair.


None of it played fair. I got in trouble - not Jimmy. I had more scratches on my face than Jimmy had on his head. Mom berated me - not Jimmy. 


———————


No wonder I’ve never forgotten this episode, even 52 years later. There must be a moral in there somewhere, but I still don’t care to search for it. I was wronged!!!



*In the 1950s bluejeans were called dungarees, and they were not popular clothing. Dungarees were laborer’s clothes, poor people’s clothes, made of coarse and stiff cotton. People with greater means wore slacks made of smoother fabric, though polyester had yet to be invented. Tee shirts were only worn as under garments, and they were universally white. Shirts were always buttoned.

Trautman Stories - The Rooster

Facing the chicken house was a brooder house. The building was a wooden half circle on it’s side, with the flat floor sited directly on the ground. It had windows on the ends, plus a door in the end closest to the chicken house. The brooder house radius was only about 6 feet, by maybe ten feet long. It was for raising baby chicks to be butchered later. In the open, 15 feet distance between the two buildings, the chickens were fed and watered.

The brooder house hadn’t been used for several months. Chick droppings had long since dried out and morphed into part of the dry dust that coated the walls. A thick layer of old droppings, feed, corncob bedding and simple dirt covered the warped board floor.

White Leghorn, like we had.

There was a rooster who chased us. We were told not to run, since he would not chase us then. It was very hard to avoid running when I felt he was going to attack me. Flight was the only logical answer, since I knew in my six year old mind, I couldn’t fight him.

One afternoon, when Kay and Jimmy were playing in the brooder house, I went to join them. I was excited to play there, and wasn’t able to keep adult warnings about running by the rooster in my six year old brain. Sure enough, as I ran past the chicken house to the brooder house, the rooster took up pursuit!

I ran into the brooder house and slammed the screen door behind me. Kay and Jimmy said they would hide me so the rooster wouldn’t get me. I was anxious for that, because I didn’t want to be pecked to death!

There was a chicken crate in the brooder house. A chicken crate is a slatted box that opens on the top. Chickens are held inside. The slats are too close together for them to squeeze through the spaces. The crate’s dimensions are, approximately, two feet high, three feet long, and two feet deep.

Kay and Jimmy told me to get into the chicken crate, which they quickly covered with an old rag rug that had been outside much too long. Covering me ensured that the rooster couldn’t see me and get me. I crouched down, grateful for the selfless protection offered by my sister and brother.

After sitting hunched over for a time, I asked if the rooster was gone. No, they told me, he was still circling the brooder house, looking for me. So I waited. I could hear Jimmy and Kay playing some kind of game, but I don’t know what it was.

Although I couldn’t see out, my fevered, rear-fueled imagination visualized the rooster stalking the brooder house. He went around and around, slowly, looking for any opportunity to attack me. The rooster carefully lifted up one foot, pausing to cock his head from one side to another, reconoitering for any indication of my presence, replaced that foot on the ground, and lifted the other one, going through the same process. It was only through the loving care and protection of Kay and Jimmy that I was not being pecked to death at that very minute!

I laid on my right side, I laid on my left side. “Is the rooster still out there?” “Yes, he is. You better not come out yet.”

I laid on my back, I laid on my stomach. “Is the rooster still out there?” “Yeah. Don’t come out!” A giggle may have followed that.

I don’t know how long I stayed in that dirty crate, under that smelly, musty, dusty rug. It seemed like hours. I think I stayed there until Jimmy and Kay left. I’ll bet the rooster left long before that.

Trautman Stories - Digging to China

The fence tool rose and fell, rose and fell,‭ ‬the sharp end punching into the earth. Whump! Whump! They were digging to China.‭ ‬Kay was‭ ‬8,‭ ‬Jimmy was‭ ‬7,‭ ‬and Debby was‭ ‬5.‭ ‬They attended Sunbeam School, a one-room schoolhouse where they were all taught by Mrs. Rose Danburg. While she was teaching one class, the other students had their own work to do. However, if they got done quickly enough, they could listen in to what Mrs. Danburg was teaching other students.

The three had learned in school that China was on the other side of the planet. But that didn’t make any sense in Debby’s mind. How could they keep from falling off if they were hanging upside down on the bottom of the earth? The whole idea that the earth was round was quite bizarre to her thinking anyway. It was obvious that the earth was flat. All she had to do was look.

And Debby did look. The rhythmic “whump, whump, whump” of the digging was her backdrop as she stared out over the flat land that surrounded the farm. The biggest change in the elevation of the level fields and pastures was the earthen berm that resulted from the dugout, a sizable hole in the ground, which had been excavated to store water for the livestock to drink.  Being possessed with an active and creative imagination, Debby tried to puzzle out this news about the planet. It was intriguing. Even more intriguing was the idea that somewhere down there underneath her feet, was an entirely different group of people.

She’d seen pictures of those people in her book. They wore strange clothes. The clothing looked more like pajamas than anything else. Apparently those people wore their pajamas all day, in the middle of the day! They wore conical straw hats.  Debby could see how those hats would keep the sun off. Daddy wore a straw cowboy hat in the summer. But why were their hats such an odd shape?

Those people were called Chinese. They all seemed to be very short. They walked funny. Their names were really odd - Chin Yee? Their eyes were a lot different. They didn’t know how to farm. They didn’t have tractors. Their fields were full of water, and you cannot farm in water. You would just get stuck all the time. Their language was the strangest thing she had ever heard. Why didn’t they just talk like everyone else?

The biggest question remained: How did they keep from falling off the earth? Debby knew about falling. She knew that the sky was up and the ground was down and that you could not stand in the sky. You had to be on the ground. How did those Chinese people do it?

Dad had told the kids that if you dug a hole deep enough into the ground,‭ ‬you would go through to see those Chinese people.‭  ‬Whump! Whump! Whump! Whump!

Debby's mind boggled at the image.‭ ‬She could see her head popping up,‭ ‬like a gopher out of its hole,‭ ‬and seeing strange looking people in conical straw hats hanging on the underside of the earth,‭ ‬upside down‭!‬ It was impossible to comprehend,‭ ‬except in the magical thinking of‭ ‬children.

Kay was the designated digger,‭ ‬probably because she was oldest and biggest.‭ ‬She held the fence tool in both hands and swung it energetically.‭ ‬Whump‭! ‬Whump‭! ‬Whump‭! ‬The tool had various parts to perform various functions for fence building or repair. There was a wire cutter, a hammer, and a pointed end to pull staples out of the post. That sharp end was their digging tool.

Fencing tool. Note the sharp, pointed end to the right.

All three children were gathered around the hole, now about 4-5 inches deep. Kay was vigorously swinging the tool above her head, and then bringing in down into the hole with all of her eight year old strength. Jimmy was across from her watching closely and eagerly awaiting the moment, certainly near at hand, when the punch through to China would occur. Whump! Whump!

Debby was on the side between her big sister and brother, but she was a bit distracted from the excitement. There was a tin toy car on the other side of the hole,‭ ‬maybe‭ ‬a foot away.‭ ‬It was one of the nicer toy cars,‭ ‬one that Debby never got.‭ ‬Jimmy or Kay always got the best cars,‭ ‬and Debby got the clunkiest,‭ ‬ugliest ones with the least paint left on them.‭ ‬This car was a pretty blue,‭ ‬had all its paint,‭ ‬and was not bent up or dented.‭ ‬This could be her chance to get it and play with it while the other two were focused on digging to China.

Debby considered the hard,‭ ‬pointed tool that was rising and falling between her and the‭ ‬car. Whump! Whump!‭ ‬She gave all the in-depth thought a five year old can.‭ ‬Here she was,‭ ‬there was the car over there. In between was the fencing tool with its sharp point digging into the ground. Whump! Whump! Whump! What to do? What to do?‭ ‬Debby thought she could time it right so that she could reach across quickly,‭ ‬snatch the‭ ‬car with her hand,‭ ‬and pull it back before the tool fell again.‭ ‬She could have the car‭!

Debby waited a moment,‭ ‬watching Kay swing the fence tool,‭ ‬noticing Jimmy's focus on the soon-to-be-revealed China‭ ‬.‭ ‬.‭ ‬.‭ ‬.‭ ‬.‭ ‬Whump! Whump! . . . and reached for the car‭!‬ Whuck!

Well,‭ ‬she tried to,‭ ‬but her timing was very poor.‭ ‬Kay lodged the tool in the back side of Debby's wrist with her next swing.‭ ‬There was a shocked silence while Kay pulled the tool back and Debby looked at the hole in her wrist.‭ ‬Debby was surprised to see that her wrist was white in there.‭ ‬She had always‭ ‬thought one's insides were very colorful.‭ ‬Then blood began to flow into the hole in her wrist,‭ ‬and the children sprang to action, China instantly forgotten.

Kay began shouting in a frightened voice,‭ "‬Mommy‭! ‬Mommy‭! ‬Debby is bleeding all over‭!" ‬Jimmy ran to the house to get mom,‭ ‬shouting as he went too.‭ ‬Debby burst into tears and got up to run to the house,‭ ‬which was only a few feet,‭ ‬when mom met her at the steps.‭

---------------------------------------

Now,‭ ‬at age‭ ‬58,‭ ‬I have to look real hard to see the scar on the back of my wrist.‭ ‬It's about a quarter inch long,‭ ‬and thin enough to blend in with the wrinkles.‭ ‬I think it might have been a half inch deep,‭ ‬but so narrow that I'm pretty sure there were no stitches.‭ ‬Or I should say,‭ ‬no stitch.‭ ‬It was minor,‭ ‬but one of those moments that registered clearly in my memory.‭

By the‭ ‬way,‭ ‬it was a long time before I realized I ought to give up on the digging to China thing.

Trautman Stories - Egg Shampoo

Kay and Jimmy and Debby were playing Hide and Go Seek in the haymow of the barn. The hay mow was the top floor, where hay was stored either in bales or loose piles for the winter. Dad was downstairs milking the cow, while the cats waited for their share of the milk when he was done. In the cold winter that it was, a little warm milk, straight out of the cow, was a perfect treat for them.

The cats had their job - managing the rodent population - and they roamed freely all over the farm. The chickens, on the other hand, had the job of providing the family with eggs, and they were supposed to do that in the chicken house. Sometimes there was a nomad chicken who wandered to other parts of the farm, including the barn.

The children did most of the egg gathering every evening. They only checked the barn under duress: If mom ordered them to, and watched to make sure they actually went there. So as the three children played hide and go seek, they had to watch out for random eggs lying about.

Debby had found what she was sure was the best hiding place. It was on the haymow floor, surrounded the hay bales, with a high cliff up bales on one side. Jimmy had been found already, and had drifted downstairs to watch dad milk and to bother the cats. Kay was still hunting for Debby

Debby was very excited about being the last to be found. As the littlest, at 6 years old, she was usually first found. She was so proud of herself, so excited. She could hear the sound of Kay above her, on that cliff of bales, searching and searching. Suddenly there was a cold crash on her head!

Debby jumped up, frightened and confused. She put her hand up to touch her head and it was all sticky and slimy. Then a thick yellow and clear streaked liquid began dripping down her face. It was an egg smashed on her head!

Climbing out of the hay, tears and egg mingling in a real mess, Debby made her way to the stairs down. Kay was right beside her, worried that Debby was hurt. Both were most worried about what mom would say. Both parents had told them to be careful about eggs in the haymow. Dad continued to milk the cow while Debby and Kay began their trek to the house. It wasn’t really far, but it seemed endless, and ending too soon at the same time.

They knew they had to go, and they feared their mother's temper. This was going to make her so mad!! Cold had frozen the egg in Debby's hair, making it clank together. Both girls were afraid Debby’s frozen hair would all fall out! Egg was on her coat and face. Tears were freezing on her cheeks. Oh, this was going to be bad!

When they entered the house Mom came right away because she heard the crying. Kay was trying desperately to explain that it was an acccident. There had been an egg up there that she had "accidently" kicked with her foot and it fell on Debby's head. Kay really, really, really didn’t mean to drop an egg on Debby. Really.

For her part, Debby could not meet her mother's eyes. She just waited for the punishment to begin. Kay had run out of gas with her hurried explanation, and still mom was silent. This was going to be even worse than the two girls had imagined. Then mom spoke:

"Well, I hear egg shampoos are good for the hair."

Trautman Stories - Saturday Night is Bath Night!

We took baths on Saturday night. Remember, there was no bathroom. There was, however, a round, steel, galvanized tub. These are dimension approximations: 3 feet diameter, 2 feet deep.

The tubs doubled as summer swimming pools.
Kay is in one, Jimmy and I in the other.

I think we had a water heater so that water didn’t have to be heated on the stove. If it was winter, and cold, mom turned the oven on and opened the door to keep us warm. The tub was moved to the kitchen and about a foot of water was added. All three of us children were bathed in the same water. I don’t know if Mom and Dad got fresh water or not. I hope so.

I remember once being terrified that the oven was going to blow up and kill me while I was in the tub. I must have heard something somewhere about a gas explosion. Mom was not very patient with fears like that. (With 3 small children within 3 1/4 years, who would be!?! [Can you imagine, being pregnant 27 of 46 months?!])

I have a photo of myself in the tub on one of those occasions. Boy, I was awfully rotund and chubby! I look like a toddler, must have been 3-4 years old. If I can find the photo, and get it posted here, I’ll do so.

Galvanized steel tubs had lots of uses. (They were manufactured to serve as water and feed troughs for livestock.) There is a summertime photo of Kay, Jimmy and I in those tubs on the lawn playing in the water. I don’t remember that, but I’m sure it was not uncommon. Cheap entertainment. Oddly enough, the three of us look like we’re having a good time. No one is fighting!

Tractors

When Dad was a boy, he helped his Dad farm with horses. He frequently told us children how much he disliked that. He and Larry must have rejoiced when Grampa bought his first tractor. Tractors are a centerpiece of farming, and they played an important part in our daily lives.

The Little Garden Tractor and the Super Case-o-Matic

There was a tractor known as The Little Garden tractor. It was created by Dad and Larry, perhaps in the 1940s. It was built entirely from scratch out of scraps of iron and unused parts found on the farm.  It had a small 2-stroke engine and an angle iron frame. It looked like a tractor in that the rear tires were larger than the front, and the seat for the driver was a tractor seat. There was no body - no fenders or hood. I remember Dad allowing us to putt-putt about the yard when we were little.

There was also the Super Case-o-Matic. I think that was created in the early 1960s. If I remember right, the front axle and frame rails were from a late 1940s Ford farm truck. The rear half was from a Case tractor of the 1940s or 50s. It included the fenders, seat, brakes and gauges. The engine was a six-cylinder Mercury automobile motor. The hood was a long black piece of sheet metal with a bit of curvature bent into it. The Super Case-o-Matic was fitted with a smallish Du-all loader.  It was something to see!

The Super Case-o-Matic had an interesting steering system. There was a long iron rod that extended along the side of the of the tractor to the front wheels. Turning the steering wheel made the rod go forward or backward, turning the front wheels. With the fast engine and the truck gearing, one could drive the Super Case-o-Matic down the road up to 30 mph. (Most tractors couldn’t hit 20mph on their best days.) One had to be a little nuts to do so. That steering rod flopped back and forth several inches, and one could turn the steering wheel about 1/4 turn with no response. Of course, Terry did drive it down the road that fast. What does that tell you about my little brother?

In later times, the late 1970s-early 80s, we used the Super Case-o-Matic to move big, round bales. The tractor had no power steering, or power anything. The loader, like all loaders, used hydraulic power to raise, lower, and grasp. It was an old loader on an old tractor. Hydraulic fluid continually leaked out by the levers used to operate it. Whoever had the chore/job/burden of running the Super Case-o-Matic wore their absolutely worst clothes, knowing by the end of the day, their jeans would be soaked in hydraulic fluid.

When I ran the Super Case-o-Matic to pick up bales, this was my procedure:

Drive up to the bale, raise the tines on the scoop, lower the scoop to the bale, drive forward a few feet to get the scoop around the bale, lower the tines. Then I had to take the tractor out of gear. The loader wasn’t very powerful, and I had to dig the tines into the bale to hold on to it. To give the hydraulic system enough power to press those tines down, I had to rev the engine up. Hence, the need to be in neutral. After the tines were well-inserted and the scoop lifted off the ground, I put the Super Case-o-Matic in gear and began going forward. I had to be moving to steer the tractor. With no power steering, and the entire weight of that big, round bale on the front end, super-human strength was required to turn the steering wheel. Once it got moving, I could then drive to the place where I wanted to leave the bale. But even when moving, the Super Case-o-Matic was never easy to steer.

In contrast, one day I was picking up bales with the Super Case-o-Matic while Mom was using the 730 with a loader. While I slowly went through the required routine to pick up one bale, Mom could get two or more. She simply drove up to the bale and, without stopping, raised the tines, lowered the scoop, pushed the tines into the bale, lifted it back up, and took it away in her nice, clean clothes. She did all that while still moving forward. I remember her smirking at me while she rolled along snagging up bales. It really was funny.

John Deeres

I remember lots of John Deeres. We had an H and an A, built somewhere between 1943-52. They were pretty small tractors that we used mostly for haying or pulling smaller wagons. They had to be started by spinning the fly wheel. The fly wheel was on the side of the tractor, connected to the crank shaft that turned the engine over, much like what a starter does when you turn the key on your car. In modern cars, the fly wheel resides between the engine and the transmission, and is less that one foot in diameter. Dad served as the starter for those two tractors.

 John Deere H, fly wheel in the lower right corner.

The fly wheel was about three feet in diameter, and very difficult to turn because one had to overcome the inertia of the engine, and turn the pistons in their cylinders. It was hard, and the fly wheel was prone to kick back - hard. Dad always warned us children to be very careful, because the fly wheel could easily dislocate an arm, or cause other damage to its human starter.

The idea of spinning the flywheel was a challenge, almost an obsession for us children. It was there, it was dangerous, it was risky. Who would be brave enough to take the chance first?! Dad told Jim, Kay and I that we were too little. But were we really? I remember giving the flywheel little pulls, and feeling how strongly it resisted and desired to snap back. I don’t remember if I ever did start either of those tractors.

I can see those little tractors sitting behind the shop, up next to a tree. It was fun to play on because it wasn’t so overwhelmingly big. On quiet summer afternoons it was hot, but not too hot to play Farmer. We’d sit on the metal seat, shaped to fit one’s butt, bounce up and down, and turn the steering wheel back and forth, all the while making the popping sound of every John Deere two cylinder engine. Our dog, Tag, laid panting in the shade, paying little attention to the “driver."  We gave orders to the invisible help working on the ground while we arrogantly commanded the high perch. We plowed, mowed, scooped, planted. Everything.

Anyone who grew up on a farm in the 1950s and 60s knows that John Deere sound in a flash. Even if they didn’t have John Deere’s on their own farm, their neighbors certainly did. It was such a distinctive pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. There was nothing like it.

We had bigger tractors that performed the majority of the field work were a G, a 720 and a 730. They were all three “Popping Johnnies”, as the two cylinder tractors were nicknamed. I never used the G. The 720 and 730 were about twice the size of the A and H.

Dad was very proud of the 720 when he bought it used in the early 1960s. It was a diesel, maybe the first one he bought. 720s were built in a three year window, 1956-58. Diesel engines were more powerful than gas, and diesel fuel was only about half the cost of gasoline in those days.

720 Diesel, ours had a wide front end

One of the interesting quirks of the 720 was how it started. Diesel engines were still fairly primitive when it came to starting. This tractor had a very small gasoline motor located in the hood and attached to the diesel engine. When one wished to use the 720, the little gas engine had to be started first. It was given some time to run, then with the use of two long levers, the operator engaged the gas motor to the diesel engine. The little gas motor functioned as a starter to get the big diesel turning over. I believe that starting difficulty was in large part due to the crude nature of diesel fuel. It tended to thicken upon standing, I think.

We kept the 720 for many years, and, as time went on, it was relegated to less intensive tasks. Farm implements like plows and disks and harrows had gotten significantly larger, and the 720 could not pull them, so it was replaced by bigger, newer tractors. I think the 720 hung so long because Dad was really fond of it.

In the early 1980s, brother Terry and I used it to move big, round bales. The 720 had a bale fork on the 3-point hitch. A 3-point hitch was hydraulically activated so that it could go up and down. The bale fork consisted of two heavy long steel teeth, about three feet apart and four feet long, extending back from the tractor and parallel to the ground. We backed the tractor up to the end of a bale lying on its side in the field, dropped the bale fork to the ground in front of the bale, and, by backing up still further, slid the fork under the bale. The fork was lifted, the bale was off the ground, and the operator carried it to the place it needed to be.

Terry used it sometimes, I used it other times. I have to say Terry won the “You know your bale is too heavy when . . .” contest. The bales were heavy, the tractor was light for the job. After lifting the bale, the operator put the tractor in gear and took off . . . sometimes with the front end of the tractor in the air! If the tractor was in a higher gear, it went faster, and thus up in the air more. We were doing wheelies with a 720 John Deere tractor! It became a challenge of how high the front end could be, and still keep the bale off the ground and bring it the quarter mile up to the cattle feed lot. Each large rear wheel could be braked individually, which is how steering was possible without the front wheels on the ground.

Mom and I made a series of jokes about it. You know your bale is too heavy when . . .
You look straight ahead and all you can see is the sky.
You turn the steering wheel and nothing happens.
You have to look behind yourself to see the ground.

There were more, but you get the idea. Just as now, whatever work one does, finding some humor in a difficult job helps the work get done well.

The 730 looked very much like the 720, but it ran on gasoline and was not as powerful as the 720. Sometime after the 700 series we got an R. We didn’t have it long. I don’t think Dad really thought it fit our needs very well.

Terry driving the John Deere 3020 with 3 drills, planting malting barley.

There were two New Generation John Deeres. They were called that because they were the first John Deere general farm tractors that did not have 2-cylinder engines, they had six. We had the 4020 and the 3020, built from 1963-72. Dad was especially proud of the 4020. It was a diesel, and required no special starting procedure. It was used as the loader tractor for years.

WD Alllis Chalmers

Along the way in the 1950s and 60s, there were a couple of non-John Deere tractors on the farm. One was a WD Allis Chalmers. It served as the loader tractor for many years, moving the small rectangular bales, scooping snow, cleaning out barn lots. Late in the 20th century, Dad and Tammy used a very similar tractor to win many tractor pulling competitions.

I think the last tractor Dad purchased was a big white Case tractor. It was the first well-cabbed and air conditioned tractor Dad ever owned. Dad had it and the 4020 until the farm sale in 1987.

Dad driving the Case 2290, with John Deere 660 combine. 1982

I think Dad really loved his tractors. As with his cars, Dad always purchased tractors used, letting someone else take the early and big depreciation mark downs. It may be likely that Dad’s tractors and cars helped him assert his independence from his father, who could be critical and dominating. It can be difficult to find one’s place while working next to one’s father, after years in his shadow.

Feeding Calves in the Winter, 1970s

I’m talking about calves that were born in March or April and weaned in October. We fed them a mixture including corn, alfalfa, silage*, and supplemental pellets. The goal was to fatten them up through the winter, to be sold in the spring. The buyers fed them throughout the summer. They were slaughtered the next fall, becoming your steaks, hamburgers, ribs and roast beef sandwiches.

The calves were kept in the barnyard adjoining the barn. There were big, wooden feedbunks in a line in the yard. In a lot next to the barnyard we stored the hay, silage, corn and pellets.

We had a big feeder wagon to accomplish the feeding. It was perhaps 12 ft long, 6 to 8 feet wide, and 5 or 6 feet deep. We used two tractors. One pulled the wagon, while the other loaded the hay and silage into it. There was a mixing mechanism in the wagon so that the different ingredients of the feed were combined. The alfalfa, silage, corn and pellets were added to the wagon, then the wagon was pulled into the feed lot.

The calves quickly learned that wagon meant food, so they gathered ‘round. The tractor pulled the wagon along one side of the line of troughs. There was an augur in the wagon to pull feed out and deposit it in the trough.

Dad or one of the boys drove the tractors. I opened and closed gates and shoveled corn and pellets. I did the grunt work, as did either of my brothers when they helped Dad.

The calves were fed every morning, regardless of weather. On particularly frigid, windy, blizzardy days, this is how I dressed to do that work:

On the bottom half, after underpants - white athletic tube socks - long thermal pants over the socks - thick woolen winter socks, tops tucked over the thermal pants - blue jeans pulled on over all that.

On the top half, after sports bra - t shirt - thermal shirt - flannel shirt.

Then it was down to the entryway, to put on the outermost layers. There were several hooks on the walls which were loaded with sweatshirts, jackets, coats, and coveralls. There was a box on the steps crammed with gloves, mittens, hats and scarves. (Mom knitted or crocheted most of the hats and scarves.)

Coveralls

In this order, on went a hooded sweatshirt, hood up - full body, long sleeved, insulated overalls - insulated boots - knit cap - knit scarf tied around neck and pulled up on the face just below the eyes - gloves - mittens.

Ready to go. It was important that no bare skin be exposed. And pray to god I wouldn’t need to go to the bathroom for a couple of hours.

The temperature might be -20 degrees. The wind might be 40 mph. The snow might be blowing horizontally. But the calves had to be fed, or they would die. Their feed was fuel to heat their bodies.

The many layers of clothing was our tactic to survive that depth of cold. It worked. The biggest frustration I remember was my eye glasses frosting over from my breath. I was nearsighted then, and I needed to be able to see dad on the tractor so I could interpret his signals about what I should do next as we fed. It wasn’t that my glasses got a little foggy. It was actual frost on them. I could have used a windshield ice scraper to get it off, but it might have been a little hard on the specs. Hot breath created frost on the scarf across my face at my mouth. Sometimes I looked like I had scraggly white fangs dangling from my scarf. After 30 minutes out there, any of us would have made the Unabomber (1980s mass murderer) look benign.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A silage pile. Imagine the tractors from
the "Tractors" story, rather than the ones pictured here.

*Silage is a form of roughage feed. The entire corn plant is chopped up by an implement called a chopper which pulled by a tractor through the field. The corn rows feed into the chopper, and machete-like knives inside chop the plant into pieces that usually are around 2 inches long. The silage is stored packed tightly together, which causes heat to build up. Some mild fermentation occurs, making the silage a more effective food by releasing more nutrients. On those frozen winter mornings when the silage is scooped up by the tractor, the heat is still there and the silage steams. The calves really like the sweet, warm food.

Mom: The Miller Press - "Gilbert-York News"

Mom, Margaret Ellen Wade Heinzerling, wrote a column for the weekly local newspaper, The Miller Press. She was officially a correspondent. Her job was reporting on the activities of the neighbors and local clubs and other groups, for the past week. It was labeled, “Gilbert-York News.” Gilbert and York were the names of the two townships covered.

On Sunday evenings, Mom began her phone calls. She sat at the kitchen table, with the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder while she wrote down the information she received. Some things she already knew:

“The Beulah Community Church Ladies Aid met Thursday at Gertrude Paustch’s home. The lesson was on Matthew 5.5-23, the Beatitudes.” Mom listed the names of each member, present and absent. There was some information about the treasurer’s report, who led the Bible study, who the president was, what projects were pursued. I can recite the last line by heart because it wasn’t only used by Mom. There were similar columns for other neighborhoods in The Press. Each meeting item ended the same: ‘Lunch was served and a good time was had by all.’ ”

Mom’s column was chiefly made up of items like this:

“On Wednesday afternoon, Mrs. Bill Joy had coffee with Mrs. Milo Seigling.”

“Sunday visitors to the Ralph Watkins home were the Mr. and Mrs. Merlin Heinzerling and family. The adults played cards and the children played games. Mrs. Watkins made snacks for everyone.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bob Jones attended the graduation of their granddaughter, Sally Jones, at Wessington High School Saturday. Following that, they enjoyed the reception at the Legion hall.”

To make it easier, Mom had a cheat sheet that listed the neighbors, and underneath their names she had written their children, grandchildren, nephew, nieces, and locations of them. Then, when Edna Ward told Mom that Edna’s granddaughter had been visiting, Mom knew that was granddaughter Marcy from Chula Vista, California.

Mom was paid by column inch, so she tried to get everyone called, and reported everything they told her. Her focus was to include whatever each individual wanted. Mom quickly got to know their preferences: How they wanted their name to appear, what types of activities they considered appropriate for the column, etc.

Mom really cared for her neighbors, and wanted the best for them. The families frequently in her column were Virginia and Walt Jenner, with 3 children, 2 girls and one boy; Floy and Stanley Conkey, with one son and four girls; Gertrude Paustch, who was pianist at Beulah Community Church; Ethel and Harold Carr; Audrey and Bill Oligmueller, with two girls and one boy; Delores and Darrel Jones, with two or three children; Eunice and Milo Seigling, with 2 girls and 2 boys; Derla and David Simons, with about a dozen children; Edna and Dick Ward; Gertrude and Bill Joy.

An effective casual interviewing style worked well for Mom. Some of her neighbors were an irritation to Mom, as they were to many other neighbors, too, as is the case in any community. I can remember Mom putting the phone down at the end of an interview, with a perturbed expression, and muttering about someone's inane behavior. It took all kinds to make that community, just as any other.

Work like the Gilbert-York News was prime territory for a gossip, a gold mine, in fact. To Mom's credit, she was not a gossip.


When I was in high school I became more sensitive to Mom’s column. It was mostly a teenage angst issue for me. My siblings and I showed up in Mom’s column more and more often as we increased our independence and activity. I was horrified to see my name in the column saying that I had babysat for the neighbors. What would my peers think?!

When I was in college, Mom entrusted me with the column a few times when she was away on a Sunday night. I complained loudly about the absurdity of me writing about our neighbors visiting one another, or their stupid meetings!! (Maturity came late for me.) Mom was insistent. Though the column didn’t pay much, every cent mattered. So I called.

In our community, talking with The Press correspondent, in this case - me, was the woman’s job.  So I talked with the ladies of the generation who preceded me. I took down the information they gave me, asked questions regarding names and other details, trying to be sure to get it right. Although I resented the job, I did want to do it right because it would be in the paper for everyone to see!

In the mid-70s in central South Dakota, gender roles were still quite traditional and rigid. I chafed under those limits more all the time. Something I had noted in The Miller Press, and most other local publications, was that women did not have names. There was Mrs. Stanley Conkey, Mrs. Dick Ward, Mrs. William Joy. There was no Floy, Edna, or Gertrude. I didn’t like that, so I resolved to write my column using the women’s names.

Gertrude Joy, Floy Conkey and Edna Ward attended the school play. So there! I felt that I had struck a blow for womankind everywhere!

The Press came out on Thursdays via the mailman, to our mailbox at the end of the driveway. It wasn’t long before Mom got a phone call. It came from Mrs. William Joy. She was highly offended that her name had been incorrectly given in the story, and she wanted to be sure that would never happen again!

I was safely away at college and oblivious to Mrs. William Joy’s ire, and Mom’s apologies - until I was home again. Actually, Mom wasn’t all that angry with me. She didn’t object to a woman using her own first name, and noted that none of the other women had complained.

I learned that, even though they didn’t write the column or get paid for it, people included had the right to make their preferences known, and it was the writer’s job to respect that. Okay!

Mom was a working fool, and her Press column was only one example of that.
---------------------------------------

By the way, The Miller Press continues to be published, and still includes neighborhood columns. There are many fewer in the first decade of the 21st century, than there were in the middle of the 20th century. The “Gilbert-York” column no longer exists. The population has dramatically decreased, and modes of communication have multiplied widely. The columns are no longer necessary.

In 2012, The Miller Press can be found online at   http://themillerpress.atomicnewstools.com/pages/