Omaha to Ogallala

By Terry Korth Fischer

Returning to Dad's home state on an idealistic seven-day trip dubbed The Wise Woman Summit, the Korth sisters trek across Nebraska with hopes of rekindling their childhood friendship. Independent, tenacious, and often outspoken, they differ at every turn. Plans go haywire, emotions explode and the family begins to unravel. When it's discovered the youngest, adopted sister is searching for her birth mother, all hope for a sisterly bond is threatened. Can they work things out or will personal desires and overwhelming family expectations split the family apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Korth Fischer
• Release date: Aug 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781633200678

Terry Korth Fischer

Biography Terry Korth Fischer writes mystery and memoir. Her memoir, Omaha to Ogallala, was released in 2019. Her short stories have appeared in The Write Place at the Write Time, Spies & Heroes, and numberous anthologies. Transplanted from the Midwest, Terry lives in Houston with her husband and their two guard cats. She enjoys a good mystery, the heat and humidity, and long summer days. Visit her website at https://terrykorthfischer.com

Book preview

Wise Woman Summit Itinerary

1 Saturday—Omaha, Nebraska

2 Sunday—Valley, Nebraska

Cousin Reunion

3 Monday—Nebraska City, Nebraska

Name Tag Day

4 Tuesday—Hastings, Nebraska

WWS T-Shirt Day

5 Wednesday—Broken Bow, Nebraska

6 Thursday—Ogallala, Nebraska

Ugly Shirt Day

7 Friday—Bennington, Nebraska

Wise Woman Summit Invitation

Remember you are who you are…

And you’ve done what you’ve done…

Embrace every frivolous experience with gusto.

Jonie is turning 40. In celebration of this life milestone we are planning a Wise Women Summit to help her on her journey. Family being the best source of true knowledge we invite you to join us for a week in August. Our roots, both Korth and Epperson, are in Nebraska. We have selected this location for our Summit, planned a week of exciting adventures, set aside some time for reflection, and hope you will participate.

Sharing one afternoon, two days, or the entire week with you would be huge.

Your sisters, cousins, aunts, or friends—and hopefully cohorts,

Terry & Holly

PART ONE

Saturday

Omaha, Nebraska

Chapter 1

The Gathering

I try to remember the last time we were together. It was undoubtedly before Casey married, and definitely before Holly became a grandmother. Time and distance have rendered the Korth sisters strangers. As the eldest, I share Mom’s desire for us to be active in each other’s lives. We’ve mismanaged the relationships, using Mom as a conduit to connect us. I’m almost giddy with anticipation for our reunion when Holly’s text message arrives at four in the morning.

Thirteen hundred miles north, she and my niece, Jonie, cross the Ohio-Michigan border heading for the Detroit airport. I play with the idea of sending a selfie in response, something goofy, me swaddled in a tattered bathrobe with my hair sticking out in all directions but decide it’s not a good idea; not enough caffeine yet. Instead, I send a smiley face and roust Ted from the bed.

My gigantic suitcase and all the paraphernalia for the coming week are already packed and by the door. Three sisters and two nieces—we’re calling it the Wise Woman Summit in honor of Jonie’s fortieth birthday. In reality, this trip is the excuse Holly and I concocted to bring us together.

Ted stumbles from the bedroom and eyes the pile of luggage.

Can you carry all that stuff?

I only have to get it into the airport and then into the rental van, I say with a confidence I don’t feel.

He snorts. After thirty-two years of marriage, he’s used to my wild ideas and crazy travel plans. I secretly think he looks forward to having the house to himself. The cats will supervise. Xena eyes him suspiciously from the top of the sofa, and Mr. Milo tries to tackle him when he heads for the kitchen.

Do I have time for coffee? he asks. Tuna noodle?

Yup. Knock yourself out, I reply. It’s his favorite, an apology for leaving him behind. I look one final time to verify I’ve packed all the necessary items for the week. Notebooks—check. Google maps—check. Hotel confirmations—check. Boarding pass…?

Do you see where I put my boarding pass?

In the bathroom he yells, talking around a spoonful of cold casserole.

Hey, wait ‘til I’m gone to eat that.

Eat wad? he asks and steps sheepishly into the room.

Tonight we’ll be in Omaha, tomorrow at Cousin Mindy’s, and…. Well, if you need me, check the schedule on the fridge.

I’ll be fine.

Of course.

I go retrieve the boarding pass from the bathroom.

• • •

Houston is dark as we make our way to the airport. It’s ninety degrees even before the sun is up, streets are hauntingly empty, and the houses are tucked in shadowy slumber. I like the heat, the humidity, the anonymous aura that something bubbles below the surface—a culture that I’m only part of by association. I’m from the Midwest, born and raised. Like the humidity, the city silently wraps itself around you until you are unwittingly a Texan and it’s too late to protest.

Not this time. I’m heading to the heartland, back to where life is simple. And this time, I’m taking my sisters with me.

Chapter 2

Over the River

I settle into my plane seat and try to make up for the early rise, but my mind is on full alert. What did I forget? What if we can’t stand to be together for a full week? Why did I pick Nebraska? I know why—it’s the one place we can all claim common ground. But still….

Finally, too exhausted to stay awake, I drift off.

• • •

Dad never said he loved Nebraska. When summer drew near, we saw it in his eyes, overheard it in an unexpected chuckle, and noted the lift in his step. We were a nomadic family, moving often in my youth, never calling any one place home. Each summer, no matter where we were, we made a journey to Nebraska—his birthplace. Mom saw the trip as duty, something she dreaded but endured. Dad looked forward to the annual two week visit and treasured each act of going home.

During the other fifty weeks he took a daily bus ride to his job, and off hours read incessantly, remaining silent while a turbulent household—six boys, three girls, and a wife—churned around him. We were eleven individuals, each with a full pallet of activities, intersecting on Sunday mornings when we’d pile into the family station wagon and trek to the Lutheran church to claim the back pew and an hour of humble Christian reflection. It was the only time we were truly silent.

Being the oldest girl, I grew up with responsibilities. In eight years, five stair-step children were added to the Korth family. Kelly, seven years my junior, I claimed as soon as he was born. There was no need to abandon dolls because a live baby was always available for cuddling and mothering. In the midst of our chaotic household, an underlying strategy emerged: teach, nurture, and lavish rewards on those with ingenuity.

Schedules and routine ruled. Bedtime at eight. Breakfasts prepared and eaten before school. Each child filed into a category: Big Kids, Little Kids, and Boo-Bahs. I was in the big kid camp with my older brother, Chuck. Big Kids were allowed to stay up late on weekends. We had few restraints. Parental experience hadn’t yet instilled wariness for the perils of free-range children. Armed with a newfound caution when the Little Kids came along, they kept a tighter reign. The Boo-Bahs were just as you would expect: everyone’s babies. Four lovely, cherished, and adopted children joining our family ten years after Kelly, the youngest of my biological siblings, was born. They received unlimited hugs, encouragement, and unbridled parenting from the other, and much older, brothers and sisters.

By the time I graduated from high school, the family had moved eleven times and Dad had built a distinguished career in education. I went off to college and the family sojourned to Pittsburgh. Dad put his degree to work at the university, and the family settled in. For the score card, this meant the Big Kids were true nomads. The Little Kids spent their high school years in one school, and the Boo-Bahs were raised in a single place and traveled through their school years with childhood friends. Unfathomable to the rest of us. We grew into nine very different people with unique personalities, wants, desires, and values before we lost touch and scattered across the United States with families of our own.

I admit I never got it—the hometown. Returning to your roots. The allure of being in the land of your ancestors. But with Dad gone, a desire to reunite with my sisters shouted: Nebraska! The place Dad called home and a return to the spaces I knew as a child. At least that’s what I had in mind when Holly and I organized the trip.

With my hopes high, I cross my fingers and descend on Omaha's Eppley Airfield.

Chapter 3

Welcome to Oz

I step into the terminal and the first thing I see is a line of chauffeurs. Each holds a placard or iPad emblazoned with a surname. Holly and Jonie are waiting at the end of the row, waving a sheet of paper ripped from a spiral notebook. Scribbled in pencil are the words: Wise Woman Summit. They giggle. Holly looks happy, her attire timeless and comfortable. Jonie, on tip-toes, cranes to see around the crowd, her denim jeans and T-shirt rumpled.

I raise the tote in greeting and make my way to them. Dropping the bag, I hug Jonie fiercely. Holly and I are more reserved, exchanging the smiles of co-conspirators.

We retrieve our suitcases and make our way down the escalator to pick up the rental van before Casey and her daughter, Maya, join us. Jonie and I both sign the rental agreement with the idea that we’ll share the driving duties. The van is scarlet, perfect for our plan to cross Nebraska. Go Big Red, we say with a reverence befitting the Nebraska Cornhuskers.

The others arrive on time. Casey is dressed casual-chic in a long, flowing dress and a silk scarf. Her expertly cut hair is professionally highlighted, falling gently past her shoulders. The effect gives her a sophisticated air. Maya is all elbows and knees, an awkward preteen in shorts and sneakers. Their bags are added to the growing pile of luggage in the back of the van.

I whisk the group off to the first point-of-interest: the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge—or Bob, as the locals call it. We plan to hike to Iowa and back. The bridge is a three-thousand-foot suspended pathway over the Missouri River, which connects the two states. We troop our way across, pause momentarily to place a foot in each state, and pose for pictures.

Jonie and Casey race ahead, zipping into Iowa and turning back as if in a foot race. Maya isn’t far behind. Jonie will turn forty in two days. Casey, her aunt, is only three years her senior. Both are small, lithe women with athletic builds. Jonie tugs a baseball cap down to shade her fair Scottish complexion. Casey tosses her locks back over her shoulders. From South Asian ancestry, her darker skin isn’t susceptible to burns. Maya double steps to keep up, head lowered, eyes hidden. Their energy and enthusiasm are higher than anything I can muster. Of course, I’m twenty years older.

Born of sturdy Prussian stock, Holly and I are both broader and, well, sturdier.

The plan calls for lunch in Omaha, followed by a look around Old Town. This part of downtown is fascinating, full of shops and restaurants. The group agrees and we find a suitable pub.

Enchiladas, Jonie says with interest, folding her hands and resting them on the menu. Whatchya think, Terry? It’d go well with a tall lager.

I think I’d rather have an IPA, Holly says. She picks up the beverage menu and runs a finger down the list of local beers.

I don’t think you want Mexican food this far north, I advise.

What can they do to it? Jonie asks.

You’d be surprised.

It’s my firm belief that Tex-Mex, or Midwest-Mex in this case, can only lead to disappointment. I’m confident Nebraska can’t boast a real jalapeño. Heaven only knows what they’d do to guacamole. Maybe I’ve lived in Texas too long, but still….

Casey’s eyes find mine. I brought the pictures from Barcelona. We can look at them this evening.

Barcelona? I ask.

Ivan and I took the children to Spain. The waiter appears behind her, notepad ready. We’ll go last, she says over her shoulder. You can get the others while we decide. Casey opens the menu lying on the table in front of her daughter, dismissing him.

Oh, I say, weighing the experience of international travel to traipsing across the prairies of Nebraska. Our sister adventure will be diminished in comparison. I have an uncomfortable thought about Casey’s expectations. A large white wine, please.

Holly settles on a twenty-ounce draft; Bull Moon or Beef Weed or some stockyard name and asks the waiter if anything of interest is happening in Omaha this weekend. A skateboard competition piques her and Jonie’s interest. I yawn. Casey and Maya whisper between themselves, ignoring us.

Barely an hour together and we have separated into isolated camps, taking seats around the table like opposing teams. Thankfully, Holly makes an effort at conversation. Eying Casey cheerfully from behind her beer glass,