There Are Places I Remember

By Rick Houser

Anytime I have been to a family gathering or get-together with friends, much of the time becomes devoted to telling tales of days gone by. These stories I listened to as a child and throughout my life. Those of my family and friends that arent here in person now are still here in the stories about them and people, places, and events that we all seem to never forget.

However, Ive noticed a flaw to the telling of our memories. When those who can recall and tell the stories are about to pass away almost always, so does all that they remembered. So I decided that as I myself love to tell the stories, I am not going to let that happen to me. So I have been writing short stories so my children and grandchildren will be able to always have them to read.

Since I began writing, Ive gained interest from my cousins and old friends who also want to read them. As time has moved forward, the number of memories continues to grow, and I write more memories to keep. I hope that reading this compilation of short stories will give you some opportunity to recall. Life should have smiles and a laugh or two, and I hope you find them within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524500740

Rick Houser

Rick Houser was born and raised in rural Ohio in the fifties and sixties. The youngest of three children with a sister and brother that served as a second set of parents to him in that they included him in their lives, which accounts for many of his memories from his earliest years. His loving parents worked at his side on their farm and helped him to grow up knowing that life can be hard but that be sure to remember the good things that you achieve. Obviously, Rick has had a large share of good memories, as this book will reveal. His family also taught him humility, as we are no better than anyone else; but on the same token, no one is better than him. Love of family comes first in his life, and because of that, along with the two prior teachings, he was raised on a common thread that will run throughout his book. When reading, most will get the feeling he is not only talking about himself, but the reader also will feel they have experienced these things with him. This book makes a strong argument that life in the fifties, sixties, and seventies were a great time to have lived.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Rick Houser.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2016907895

ISBN:       Hardcover       978-1-5245-0076-4

       Softcover       978-1-5245-0075-7

       eBook       978-1-5245-0074-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/18/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

737418

CONTENTS

I. My Home Fruit Ridge

The Lay Of The Land

The Places Where We Go

The Barn On The Hill

Open House

A Level Plateau For Us All

I Stole My First Dog

He Always Had My Vote

I Beg Your Pardon I Have The Line Now

Don’t Touch That Dial! 4/3/15

Being Last Can Put You In First

Making Time Pass

The Creation Of This Old House… Maybe?

Made To Be Consumed

It Didn’t Seem That Hard To Believe

Sliding Into Fun!

Take A Picture: It Lasts Longer

When The Diner Bell Rang

The Point Was Always Made

See You Again Sunday?

Dare It Be Said

Couldn’t Get Them Soon Enough

Just Leaf Me Out Of It

Good Old Days Not Always

A Lesson About Growing Up

43? (Maple Syrup)

My First Set Of Wheels Were Two Sets

II. Members of the Family

Walt

My Brother Ben

My Sister Peg

Mom And Dad

Grandma

Lydia

Cousin Tom Houser

My Great-Uncle Roy

Uncle Charles

Aunt Margaret

I Guess I Was Right

III. Season in Our Lives

Spring

Was It The End Of Summer Or The Beginning Of Fall?

Thanksgiving Memories

A Cooked Goose On Thanksgiving

Oh Christmas Tree

Easter And Spring Go Together

Hoping It Never Stops

Harvest Time

Winter

IV. School Days

The Social Thing To Do

No Way Homecoming Could Ever Be Forgotten

Gonna Have A Big Snow! Ha!

He Could Break A Wall!

Don’t Forget Your Lines

Outrageous Assembly

We Did Look Special

Oh, To Go Cruising

A Great Day With An Odd Turn

The Dinosaur Of Entertainment

Born A Ham

Just A Little Bit A Rebel

More Than The Wheels On The Bus

Change Wasn’t Easy

Blue Velvet

What A Bargain It Was 1/8/16

The Pole Was Bamboo

Going Downtown

More Than Bargained For

Mom And Pop Aplenty

Where A Kid Could Dream!

I’m Going Alone!

Promenade Into A Memory

V. Love for the Farm

A Time To Care Even More

And Sow It Begins

Gentlemen Start Your Engines!

Kept The Home Fires Burning

Pulling Plants Was Fun?

Waste Not, Want Not

I Come To The Garden

Don’t Forget To Plant Some Beans!

Break Time!

Got Close To Our Work

Farming Inside

Cold Cash

The Cash Crop Of An Era And An Area

Kept Busy

What A Farmer Does When He Is In Need

The Model T Of Agriculture

What Has Become The Farmers Best Friend

The Place That Made It Complete

The Signs Seems To Be Fading

Stretched Tight And Stretched Right

Not Sure If It Was The Chicken Or The Egg

No Pain, No Gain

All Used But The Squeal

VI. Adventures with the Marshall Brothers

We Laid The Plans

Herb And Charlie Part I

Herb And Charlie Part II

Herb And Charlie Part III The Clubhouse

Earning Explorer Badges

The Marshall Brothers Part IV Halloween!

Friends For Life 4/25/15

VII. Moscow

Why Moscow Comes To Mind 10/4/15

Church

Fish Fry

We All Said Our Piece

The Moscow All-Stars

Going To The Hop

Why Not?

VIII. Some Thoughts

Recalling

We All Grow

Dreaming

Life Is A Day

Smiles And Tears

The Mind’s Trick

Nothing Compared To Our Walks

The Start Of A New Day

In My Life

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

It has been said it takes a village to raise a child. In my case it has taken a community to raise me and help me to be who I am and to do what I have done. Webster’s’ Dictionary says to acknowledge is to show or express appreciation or gratitude. So with that said I wish to acknowledge the following. First and mostly my wife Sharon who encouraged me to write the stories down and stop telling them over and over to her. She has read every story I’ve written first and given me her honest opinion about them. Encouragement starts at home and that is true here also.

Close to home have been my children Meghan and Brendan Houser. Both have been instrumental in helping me assemble and encourage me to do the endeavor. Meghan has been very instrumental in keeping all the pieces together and in an organized fashion. I want to thank my parents Ralph and Madeline Houser for raising me to see good in more than I see the bad and to like people. Also my sister Peg and brother Ben for being that second set of parents who showed me how to enter this world and become a part of it and it a part of me. They have all passed but they for the most part left me with these memories.

I want to thank Barb Marshall and Mary Ann Jarmon and Haley Davis for taking the time to proof read parts of my stories.

A special thanks goes to Bob Hetterick who proof read the majority of the stories you will read. Along with that Bob helped me with ideas and details that both enhance and made accurate what is about to read.

Again I wish to thank the community where I was raised and all the great people I have had the privilege to know and get to write about.

To all I acknowledge!

Rick Houser

I

My Home Fruit Ridge

THE LAY OF THE LAND

In past writings, I have explained that I was raised on a farm in Southern Ohio, approximately three miles from Moscow, which is an Ohio River town. Our farm was a rolling tract of land as were all the tracts of land in our township. My dad owned two small farms, and he raised a variety of crops and livestock. However, the cash crop grown was tobacco. Now each farm was allotted an amount of acreage the government allowed the owner to produce and have the crop supported by the government for a support price that it would sell no less for. Since the base on our farm was two-plus acres, it would raise enough to get by on but in no way could a farmer get ahead on. So Dad would raise other farms crop and split the costs and income half and half. Dad supplied all the labor. So as our family grew, so did the number of farmers patches did he take on. By putting out more crops and working more, we had more income to go around. Dad always made sure each one of us kids had a crop that we got the profit off. That was our incentive to help one another. Without a doubt we did.

For some reason, Dad seemed to have the ability to find the farms that were hard to get to, distant from other people, and with fences and barns were in poor shape. Most of the farms were abandoned by the owners and had been for years. Each farm had uniqueness to them even if they were in rough shape, and we learned how to work around the obstacles that existed, and we managed to harvest the maximum yield the soil would allow. My dad was a good farmer, and he had the ability to understand how to make the land work for him while he cared for it so it would continue to yield well in the future (not all farmers did that, as they didn’t own the land, so they took all they could at all costs).

The first farm that comes to mind was the Cann farm. This farm located directly behind our farm was 119 acres of mostly woods and brush. The owner had move to Cincinnati and the old log house and barn along with a milk house and a few open acres around them was where the crop was raised. The access from a township road had been abandoned years before, and the road into the farm had eroded away. So since it was behind our farm, Dad put a gate in our fence, and we entered that way. When we were back there, you were not bothered by the outside world or much of anything else for that matter. Actually, we weren’t alone as we were in the middle of all that grows and lives wild. Depending on the season, it really was a place that, if you allowed, would open your eyes to a lot of what Mother Nature has to show. The place had huge tulip poplar trees along with walnut trees and wild flowers galore. As we entered the farm from ours, we passed a pawpaw patch. Only one I’ve ever seen. Seems like we got things done quickly back there, as there were no interruptions.

The second farm was approximately 2.5 miles away. From our home, we traveled back four township roads, each in poorer condition and less traded until we got to a deeply rutted drive of a half-mile long. Then we went past the abandoned farmhouse and a barn in very poor condition to arrive at the tobacco patch. The field was long and rolled gently until there was a view of the Ohio River. This was probably the least favorite of any place we ever farmed on. Actually glad when Dad decided to not raise there anymore even though Mr. Barger begged Dad to continue to farm it.

A little closer to home were my cousin Tom’s crop and my aunt Margaret’s. They were more accessible, and at my aunt’s home, we always were feed with her out-of-this-world cooking—a true luxury and an event we all looked forward to. Tom’s farm was next to us on the north side. Tom and family lived in Cincinnati except in summer. So in spring and fall, this was a farm that was also lacking people. In summer, Tom’s son Walter would be at farm; and since he and I are same age, I had a playmate and never wanted to not be included in going there. Someone my own age was a rare prize indeed.

Now the farm the furthest away was Homer and Sadie Mefford’s place. About eight miles away, this was more than going to another farm to raise tobacco. This was a journey! In more ways than one, as when you went to the Medford’s farm, you went up a narrow path to a flat place where the crop was grown and then descended down a hill, leaving 1960 and going back to 1860. Homer and Sadie were close to eighty years in age, and to me, the resembled Ma and Pa Kettle. Sadie attended the Moscow Church of Christ and pleaded with Dad to raise their crop. I think the deacons and elders were on her side also. Nobody wanted to raise it, and I was the only way they had to support themselves. This farm was a world I had heard of in history, but I was actually getting to experience it firsthand. The farm might have been sixty to seventy acres at best, and 90 percent of it was not tillable by tractor. Of course, this had never been a problem for them or their team of horses—two huge Belgium draft horses who, in their prime, was probably a powerful pair. The barn, of course, was getting in poor condition and needed work before any tobacco could be hung in it. In the back of the barn were two brown Swiss milk cows that produced large quantities of milk. Along with these animals were always fifteen to twenty pigs and a chicken house with fifty to sixty chickens and one border collie. Her name was Polly. As a matter of fact, it seemed to me that the horse, cows, pigs, and chickens were all called Polly because when they went to feed and yelled Here, Polly! every animal on the farm came on the run.

The house was a small two-story farmhouse that set up on a bank so they could see whoever entered their valley. They had a radio and electric. Other than that, it was what they had used their entire life. Water came from the well outside the kitchen door, and she cooked on a large wood-burning stove. It must be said she cooked very well on that stove. A creek ran through the valley, and the water was some of the coolest I have ever put my hot, tired feet into. Since I was about ten, when we started raising their tobacco, I got the feeling they looked forward to me being there with the crew as they seemed to enjoy children. I know I enjoyed them. A breed of people this world I doubt will ever see again. That in itself is a shame.

Over the years, we farmed many other farms in this neighborhood. Along with hard work, long days, and earning a living, I got more out of these places. I now look back and understand why I enjoy nature, land, and views. How many people start a day at sunrise and see the sun reflecting off the Ohio River from on top a high ridge? Just you and the view and seeing in a silent moment all to yourself. Or being on a farm surrounded by the sounds and smells of the world as she is preparing to call it a day. The sun slowly going out of sight over the tops of buildings that were and soon won’t be. How about entering a valley where the world hasn’t changed in the past century? Other than the equipment you brought, the only sounds are those of the farm animals undisturbed by the outside world. Those were a few of the intangibles I heard, saw, and felt. How lucky I am to have experienced them, and how I feel bad for all those who haven’t nor ever will get the chance to. All that has value cannot be placed in a bank. I didn’t know the value then, but now I look back and can say I saw the lay of the land.

THE PLACES WHERE WE GO

Lately, it has crossed my mind that when I have a thought of my youth or early years or someone mentions something from those times, I not only think about the event, but also the vision that appears in my mind always comes to the same place. For me, that place is a place or places from Fruit Ridge Road or a couple of the roads connected. That area is where I was born and where I grew up and spent more than twenty-five years of my life. This was my neighborhood.

We all started our lives in a neighborhood, and in that time, in the ’50s, ’60s, and even ’70s, our neighborhoods were the places where we felt safest and, for the most part, truly enjoyed ourselves as much as we ever did and will. To me, when I have that mind flash, the trees and grass are always green. The sun is always shining in a clear blue sky. I am always with family, friends, or the farmers who made up my neighborhood. To me, it was heaven on earth and a sanctuary, where I could feel safe from harm and always welcomed wherever I went.

I feel certain that most all folks and especially people from rural backgrounds understand what I’m attempting to say and, in their mind, also can see their neighborhood with good times going on in them. I won’t go so far as to call this Shangri-La, but it was the place where I can say that is where it was the best of times. For starters, I had all my family there with me, and we all were together in a time I hope I enjoyed and experienced as much as I think I did. These were prime-time years my parents and sister and brother were living, and I was smack dab in the middle of them. Even though I’m sure I was a nuisance, I hope I was a nuisance they loved. (I mean, I was cute and witty!)

During those years in the neighborhood, I was a boy who liked to visit with all the neighbors and relatives that lived there. I found many times there was more going on at their homes than ours and wouldn’t it have been awful if I had missed any of those events. Each person’s home or farm was unique in its own way, and I liked to see them and compare them to one another. Also I would return home and report my daily findings to Mom, Dad, Peg, and Ben. (Even if they really didn’t care as much as I did.) I would go from our house to Vive Winston’s house and see her canary. It was the only one I had ever seen. Then I would head over to Ed and Louise Maus’s farm, and if I timed it right, I was fed a feast and spoiled some, as they were brother and sister who never married, and I think I was adopted. Then onward to Joe Bolender’s, where he was good spirited and, fortunately for me, liked kids. Even pesky ones like me. But Joe could return pesky with pesky himself. I would make treks over to my great-uncle Roy’s house and learn what he was up to as he was always busy, and Aunt Ocie always made certain I got a piece of her grape pie. She might have been the best pie maker this world ever saw. Then back for a stop at Richard Davis’s farm and see how his team of horses was as they were the only team left when I was around. Just think about this. I walked to all these farms without someone to protect me, and there never was a reason to worry for my safety, as I was in my neighborhood and therefore always safe and loving every minute of it.

When I got older, I made friends with Herb and Charlie Marshall; and by this time, I had moved up to bicycle transportation, and it was a good thing as getting together was frequent. Up the road from our house was Green Acres Farm was my cousin Walt Houser. This too was a daily event, and as adults, we batched together and farmed together for over five years. When I hit my twenties, I met Sharon Parrish, and we married and set up housekeeping in the home where I was born. Life changed as we all know it does, but through all this time, the neighborhood did not! It was the backdrop for me and a large part of my life to occur. (Yup, sunshine, blue skies, green grass, and trees.) That is what still flashes in my mind.

A lot of time has passed, and so has that neighborhood as I knew it. My family has moved on, as has most all my neighbors whom I visited and let them share their time with me. Even the background has passed a lot. The farms and well-kept fences are gone, so has a lot of the barns and outbuildings. Probably if I drove through the old neighborhood, I might have a hard time recognizing it. Time does move on they say, and it is true that things and people change. It is just a part of this world spinning. Fortunately, I can just stop and think of something, someone, or somewhere from that time, and I can see it all again, as it was and is on my mind, and it always will be. Better yet, I can stop that thought and continue enjoying the here and now. Remember through it all to enjoy it always.

THE BARN ON THE HILL

This%20is%20the%20Barn%20on%20the%20Hill.jpg

This is the Barn on the Hill.

On our farm, we had a huge barn that sat upon the hill behind our house. It was a multipurpose barn for lack of a better term. Our house and all the outbuildings were gathered in a valley-type setting, a cluster of structures in an organized circle near the main house. The barn was different; it sat upon the back hill always looking so majestic. This barn had a hayloft on each side of its driveway. Each hayloft had a stable; the right side was behind the loft, and the left side was located under the loft. Also on the right side, there was a grain bin where wheat was stored. The lofts held a lot of bailed hay, and the barn itself was tiered off so that tobacco could be hung. This barn was a useful structure in many ways, including one additional use: in bad weather, it became my playground. This barn was very old. It had been built in the 1800s and was constructed of the biggest timber that I have ever seen in any barn, and it was held together by wooden pegs.

From my earliest memories, I can recall so many happenings in that barn. With your imagination, the sky was the limit as to what you could do there. We used one of our stables as a milk stable. There was a stairwell to the stable from the hayloft. Also, there were four doors in the floor of the hayloft above that could be opened to drop hay right into the cows’ mangers. This to me was a really unique quality for a barn to have.

My dad kept approximately twelve milk cows, and when I was very young, he sold them and went out of the milking business. I decided that there must not be too much good about milking since he was selling. I will admit that was one thing that I never had to do, being milk a cow. So I had no regrets about him selling them. Even though I had a curiosity about the milking process, I had no real desire to be introduced to it. I was told that the back stable was originally for horses, but Dad also sold those and purchased tractors before I could remember ever seeing a horse in that barn. I figured that, like milking, farming with horses must not be a good idea either.

When I was growing up, one stable was used for the beef cattle in which to be fed. One of my first chores was to put hay into both mangers. This was a big task for a boy of four to six years of age, I felt. It could take up to a dozen bales of hay to fill both mangers. I really felt like I was a part of the team by doing this chore. I loved that it kept me in touch with the family because everyone chipped in with the farm chores.

When my chores were done and the barn became a playground, the haylofts were the thing that could hold my attention for hours. You could take bales of hay and make a tunnel, build a house or, better yet, build a fort. As I had mentioned, tobacco was housed in the barn also. That meant not only did I have the bales of hay to play with, but I also had tobacco sticks at hand. I could use them to help fortify my fort, or they could become a spear, a rifle, a saber, or even a staff. You never knew when you might need to defend your fort, or you might run into Robin Hood and have to knock him off a log crossing a stream.

You could tie a rope to a tier rail or a crosstie, and you could swing from one hayloft to the other. I felt you could only swing through the air if you let out a hearty Tarzan yell. This to me was wild and dangerous and something that even I would not talk about in front of the folks.

The barn was a place where cats and dogs liked to hang out in, and I would always try to make them into my pets and then incorporate them into my games. I would always call the dogs Rin Tin Tin or Lassie, and I would send them off for help and be saved just in the nick of time. They probably didn’t appreciate the comparison to the Hollywood dogs, but it was great fun.

All this, along with so many other exciting dramas, could and would happen in the big barn. I would play until I was entirely worn out. Even in the winter, you could curl up in the hay to take a nap and be totally comfortable. I can remember only once or twice that my mom came looking for me because I fell asleep. That old barn was like a babysitter for my mom, and I was informed more than once that she certainly deserved one. This being because her youngest child was, to say the least, a bit hyper.

When I would get company, it wouldn’t be long before we were headed to that barn on the hill. We would play all the games that I mentioned and many more. I remember one time when I had a couple of friends over, and my elder brother Ben had a friend over also. Being that it was a gloomy day, we all headed to the barn and began to play war.

I forgot to mention that we had a lot of chickens. Sometimes they would make nests in the haylofts and then forget about the eggs, leaving them behind. That day, there were several nests of eggs in the loft. I’m not sure exactly who got the idea first, but (I’m sure it was Ben) suddenly, an egg was thrown lofting through the air like a live grenade. When it landed and broke, we all knew that is was rotten. The next thing I knew, eggs were flying everywhere being hurled from both lofts, and the stench was getting stronger by the second. I was having a great time until an egg hit me and broke. I became sick to my stomach until I heard the laughing, and then I became furious. I was sure that I had been hit by friendly fire from my brother! I was in disbelief that he had done this to me, and then my friend got hit by an egg thrown by Ben’s friend. Suddenly, it was to hell with the egg smell. We had to get even, and we did. Before the fight was over, all involved were covered with rotten eggs. Revenge was taken, and the outcome was fair. Unfortunately, we overlooked the fact that dozens of rotten eggs had been broken all over the barn and that our dad was none too sympathetic to either side for stinking his barn. I don’t remember the punishment, but I do remember that the final battle of that war was won by Dad, and boy was he mad!

I think back on that barn and all the fun and security that I got from it. I still get a very warm feeling and have good thoughts when looking back on those times. The barn represented a unified connection for me to the members of my family. On days when I would tell my mom how much I liked going to the barn, she would quote a poem written by James Whitcomb Riley titled The Old Hay-Mow. It goes like this:

The old haymow’s the place to play,

fer boys, when it’s a rainy day.

I good ’el ruther be up there,

Than down in town er anywhere!

When I play in our stable-loft,

The good old hay’s so dry and soft.

An’ feels so fine, an’ smells so sweet,

I most ferget to go an eat.

This poem goes on for four more verses, but I feel one can grasp what I felt from the above lines. The barn on the hill was a special place, to say the least. The building was built strong. I feel one could sense its strength and feel comfortable being in it, whether it was for work or play. That old barn that sat on the hill behind our house was a big part of our family. I don’t think we could tell it at the time, but I feel it now.

OPEN HOUSE

The%20farm%20house%20on%20Fruit%20Ridge%20Road%20where%20I%20was%20born%20and%20raised.jpg

The farm house on Fruit Ridge Road where I was born. Raised and a lot of what I talk about centralized from.

As I have said in past writings, I was raised on a family farm a few miles north of Moscow, Ohio, in the ’50s and ’60s. In past writings, I have told of my mom and dad, my sister, and my brother, along with events that I was involved in and thought interesting. At this time, I would like to go into depth about our farm and mostly our home life.

Our farm was named Pine Acre Farm and consisted of 189 acres of rolling and pretty land. The farm got its name from the fact that in front of the house were two huge and old pine trees, and across the road was a line of twenty-eight pines of about the same age. The house was a two-story brick with a corrugated metal roof. The house was built sometime between 1850 and 1880, and the bricks were baked on the property. There were four rooms and a bath on the main floor and three bedrooms upstairs, which included the attic that was converted when Ben and I grew and needed more room to house us all. The rooms were big, and the ceilings were high. Dad remodeled the dining and living rooms and installed knotty pine walls and hardwood floors. The house was not fancy but more like the typical farmhouses of that time. Two things I remember immediately is that in the summer, when it was hot weather, it got very hot inside; and in the winter, it was cold and drafty. Despite those flaws (and most all, farmhouses were same in having these flaws), this was our home.

Actually, the house was the shell and binding to what I define as home. Home was where my parents, siblings, and I grew up together and developed into who we were to be. In my family, I had the combination of caring, concern, and love for one another. These attributes helped us to care about the people around us. I came into this family on a warm summer night on June 23, 1949, and arrived in that home to round out the family of Ralph and Madeline Houser. My dad served as the township’s trustee for twenty-three years until he was elected Clermont County commissioner for eight years. He was a person that serving came naturally to, and it seemed like there was always someone coming to our house to talk to Ralph. It could be about the road they lived on or a fence line dispute or if they should buy or sell items at what price or just about any question that could arise. People wanted to talk it over with Dad. If it wasn’t involving his elected job, he talked with members from our church, as he was an elder; or members of the Masons, as he was a long-standing member there; or issues in the school system. There are so many other issues he heard, and some were way out of his jurisdiction, but the folks wanted to hear what he thought. In most cases, I feel Dad listened closely and let the person vent or explain; and when it was all discussed, Dad would ask just what did they think should be done. They actually answered their own questions, but they would thank Dad for the time and the answer. So it was no surprise that we saw a lot of people come into our house anytime or any day.

Now Dad wasn’t the only person who kept our front door from being entered on a frequent basis. My mom was a lady short in stature (4 feet 11 inches and approximately 104 pounds) but long on energy and the desire to be involved in her neighborhood and community and to help as much as she could. It seemed to me Mom was always holding meetings for the PTA, Eastern Star, Ladies Aid, family gatherings, and helping neighbors and friends. Since Mom had a house and garden to keep and helped Dad on the farm, etc., she just held the gatherings at her house so she could stay on course with her home and community. Anyone who entered our house to see Mom, Dad, or us kids were always offered a cup of coffee or a glass of iced tea and either doll house or oatmeal cookies to go with the beverage. If we were going to have company, they should get served.

Sometimes the minister from our church, his wife, and five sons would come for Sunday lunch. Mom would make a large country meal with all the trimmings and homemade bread. Along with the bread was homemade blackberry jelly and fresh honey (it was great to have these boys