Curly Hair & Other Stories

By Betty Hunley Carlyon

In Curly Hair and Other Stories, Betty Hunley Carlyon reminisces about her Midwestern upbringing, her married life, and her duties as first lady of a nationally renowned community college in Michigan. Throughout the book, she shares happy and humorous tales of family, friends, marriage, children, and grandchildren. Readers will find this to be a beautiful testament to her. Lovely in face, spirit, and heart, Mrs. Carlyon was a prolific letter writer and a gracious and consummate hostess. In this book, she fills her stories with laughs, insights, perspectives, understandings, information, and even some tears—the good kind! They are heartfelt, written with love and gratitude.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781646283293

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Beginning

Betty Elnora Hunley, daughter of William and Margaret Virgene Clifford Hunley, arrived at 9:40 p.m. in Pawnee City, Nebraska, on October 20, 1926, at the Pawnee Hospital. I weighed seven pounds, twelve ounces, and was twenty inches long. The attending doctor was Dr. W. R. Boyer. I think he was affectionately known as Good Ol’ Doc Boyer and was our family doctor for a long time, Pawnee’s version of the movie’s kindly Dr. Hersholt. He was also Pawnee’s only doctor. Later, a younger doctor came to town. It was probably only a decade or so before he was accepted. Change comes slowly for small-town citizens!

My parents were aged twenty-two and twenty-eight at the time of my birth and married on June 8, 1925, in Burlington, Colorado. Even though my dad’s home was in Pawnee, he met Mom in Burlington, where her family lived. Grandpa Clifford was the section foreman for the Rock Island Railroad (not the Burlington Railroad). My dad was working on a paint gang for the railroad, traveling from depot to depot along the line, painting the depots as well as all the other buildings owned by the railroad, including the section house where the Cliffords lived. That was how they met, this quiet young man from Nebraska and the pretty, dark-haired young lady from Colorado, the one with flashing dark eyes. My mom was a country schoolteacher in districts away from Burlington, so the meeting must have taken place during the summer. I don’t know if they met at the end of the school term and married that same summer, in July (whoever heard of such a short courtship?) or if they waited until the following summer.

They did go on a honeymoon, camping in the Rockies. At that time, the term camping meant the barest of amenities, like sleeping in a tent without sleeping bags, cooking over an open fire, etc. I don’t know if this was to my mom’s liking, but it certainly wouldn’t be to mine! Also, I think I remember them talking about traveling in a Model T. Whether it belonged to my dad or my mom, I don’t know. I guess they didn’t suffer any ill effects as they began their long and happy life together.

They moved to Pawnee immediately after the wedding. This was probably not an easy adjustment for my mother, being uprooted from her parents and three younger siblings still living at home. At that time, traveling back and forth was just not feasible, which meant Mom was totally in the company of the Hunley clan, some of whom didn’t exactly welcome her with open arms. It’s hard to imagine there would be those who wouldn’t like Virgene, but years later, she told me how distant they were to her and how they certainly didn’t make her feel a part of the family. So those first years of marriage must have been difficult, especially as she became pregnant. Fortunately, my dad’s mother was the epitome of a loving and sweet mother and mother-in-law. I can’t imagine that she would have not treated Mom as her own daughter. I hope so, anyway. It was the sisters-in-law who were less than friendly in the beginning. For the record, they changed considerably over the years in their treatment of Mom and they all became very close.

All this was happening at a time when the Great Depression was about to descend upon the country, the stock market crash taking place in 1928–1929. Of course, if one doesn’t have money, a crash doesn’t necessarily have that much impact, except for the negative trickle-down effect. I can’t imagine that there were many in Pawnee who lost vast fortunes, the financial health of the community probably never terribly robust. My parents always felt quite fortunate, however, because during all those difficult times, my dad was never without a job. That’s not to say they were able to live comfortably. Far from it, in fact, but I’m sure just having a job must have been psychologically rewarding even if the paycheck was pretty darned meager—perhaps about $500–600 annually. Of course, in the early thirties, a loaf of bread cost a nickel, sugar five cents a pound, eggs twenty-nine cents a dozen, a new Dodge $595, and a pair of leather shoes about $1.79. My dad worked in the local icehouse. This was at a time when even ice would have been considered a luxury for some. It was certainly before General Electric refrigerators with the large round units on top were available and affordable.

My first home was on the second floor of a house—probably not even considered an apartment in today’s terms—that just happened to be across the alley from my grandparents’. I don’t know if that was a plus or minus for Mom. Since I was the fifth granddaughter to be welcomed into the family, my arrival probably wasn’t terribly newsworthy except to my parents, since most were probably hoping for a grandson. The three older granddaughters, Ma, Fleda, and Evelyn, were all about the same age as my mom, and they always seemed more like aunts than cousins to me. My cousin Carolyn was two years older than me. Betty Alice was adopted and one year older, and another cousin, also named Evelyn, was born later in 1942 or 1943.

My first recollection was a few years later, when I had my tonsils removed. I remember being given Eskimo Pies, wrapped in tinfoil, to help ease my sore throat. That was a real treat, especially at a time when the budget didn’t cover many luxuries. We had moved to a larger house at that time. It was referred to as the Booth house, just as the house we moved in to when I was about five was the Ware house. There were no house numbers on homes in Pawnee at that time, so all the houses had their own identification names, depending on who owned them or who had lived in them previously. The Ware house was owned by the three maiden Ware sisters.

During our stay at the previous home, I had a playmate who lived across the street with his parents. It just so happened that this friend was in his twenties or thirties and he was severely handicapped. His mental ability might or might not have matched mine at that time. I can remember sitting on the porch with this nice person. I probably did most of the talking. He just seemed to be happy in my presence. Years later, after he died, whenever his mother saw mine, she always told her how much her son enjoyed my company and how much he missed me after we moved.

That move took place in the fall of 1930, and I began kindergarten the next fall, 1931. A few years ago, in 1994, I went back to Pawnee to attend the fiftieth reunion of the 1944 high school class. It was a wonderful experience! Even though I didn’t actually graduate from the school in Pawnee, many of my friends and classmates from the kindergarten class chose to include me in the reunion celebration since we had shared so many years together. We moved to Rulo in 1941, and I attended the high school there for my sophomore year and the first half of my junior year. At that time, I transferred to Falls City High, where I graduated in 1944. Because of these changes, my loyalties certainly remained with the Pawnee classmates. Two years ago, in 1999, I returned to Pawnee to attend the fifty-fifth reunion. I am still corresponding with four of these friends, and we’re looking forward to the sixtieth reunion in 2004!

Sometime before we moved to the Ware house, my dad was able to get a different job, working for the Pawnee City Water Department. I don’t know what his duties were at that time, but he later became the superintendent, a position he held until he took a similar job with the Falls City Water Department. This is being mentioned because, with an event taking place soon after, the larger paycheck would have come in very handy.

Charles Harrington Hunley

In the fall of 1932, September 27 to be exact, I was awakened for school by my dad, not my mother, because she wasn’t there. It was very unusual for my father to wake me in the morning. It seemed she was in the hospital, having delivered a baby during the night. What a blessed event that was in the family, the arrival of the first and only Hunley grandson, Charles Harrington Hunley. It was also a complete surprise for me since I had absolutely no clue this was going to happen!

Back then, of course, pregnancy was a condition one tended not to display and certainly not discuss, not even with the one who was about to become the older sister! Had they asked me, I’m not so sure I would have given my seal of approval. But if it had to happen, I most certainly would have put in a stronger request for that older brother I always wanted.

This meant, of course, I had to give up my only child status. On the other hand, given the tight financial situation of most families at that time, as well as the trend for no-nonsense children, not to mention the nature of my father, I have a feeling I was never in danger of becoming spoiled. That wasn’t true of my older cousin Carolyn, however. Her mother had died, after a very long and painful bout with cancer, when Carolyn was about five. To compensate for that loss, as the story goes, her dad lavished possessions on her. Her wish was his command, up to and including a pony. As I watched these gifts pile up, I decided, if it worked for her, it would most surely work for me. So one day, I tried the ranting, raving, and tantrum-throwing routine. That was all it took—one time—and it quickly became very apparent that all I was going to get for my efforts was a spanking and stern warnings! Guess I just didn’t have the knack!

It’s hard to imagine, considering how much a part of the pregnancy process children would later become, that children of my generation could be so completely oblivious to this condition. Today’s children watch the mother’s shape grow large, feel the first movements of the baby, help with the naming process, and sometimes even participate in the birthing process. Wouldn’t you think I might have noticed the increasing size of my mother’s stomach? Of course, even if I had and had asked questions, there would not have been any answers forthcoming. However, as unprepared as I was for this new addition, it didn’t take me long to learn to love this cute little baby brother, Chuck. And of course, I wouldn’t have traded him for all the older brothers in China—or anyplace else!

Belly’s Pawnee City kindergarten class, 1931–1932. The teacher is Ms. Wickersham. Betty is in the third row from the bottom, the fourth from the right.

Chapter 2

Grandma Hunley

Susan Elnora Coleman Hunley (1861–1931), Bill’s mother, married to Harrington Hunley.

If what I am writing seems to take the form of a story, with chapters and the like, the following is, indeed, the story of Grandmother Hunley. As I was reading some of the obituaries I have in my possession, I was really surprised to discover that I was only five when she died, on November 12, 1931, even before the birth of her grandson in 1932. I have such fond memories of this dear lady that it seems she would have been a part of my life for longer than five years. As I mentioned earlier, she was the epitome of what a grandmother should be, loving unconditionally as well as being all warm and fuzzy. Later, I’ll write the story of my other grandmother, Grandma Clifford. If there were ever opposites, those two would certainly never have to worry about getting in each other’s way. I’m sure Grandma Clifford cared for Chuck and me as grandchildren, but her actions and words would never be described as warm and fuzzy.

Susan Elnora (that’s where it came from!) Coleman was born in Baltimore, Maryland, on November 4, 1861. She was seventy years old when she died, younger than I am now. She seemed like such an old lady to me! At the age of four, she moved with her parents to Adams County, Illinois. She was married to my grandfather Harrington Landon Hunley on January 26, 1882. According to the obituary, they lived in Adams until their removal to Pawnee City, Nebraska, on February 29, 1884, enduring the hardships on a farm in the early years of the state.

There isn’t any record of why they moved to Nebraska. I don’t know if the Homestead Act of 1862 was in effect at that time, or perhaps they had family living there. In any case, they obviously didn’t make it as farmers, because they again removed to the town of Pawnee in 1891, where they lived until their deaths. To this union were born twelve children, four of whom preceded their mother in death.

Surely, my aunt Hazel’s middle name must be wrong; the writing was hard to read. My dad never acknowledged his middle name. He wouldn’t even use the initial because he disliked it so much. As for my middle name, it was not only bestowed on me but had also been given to my two cousins named Evelyn. One Evelyn was Florence’s daughter, who died in a car accident at the age of twenty-four. My younger cousin Evelyn was Abbie’s daughter. For whatever weird reason, the family seemed to like that name. On the other hand, I could have been named Alta Experience! Be thankful for small favors.

As I look at the list of births, I notice that they seemed to come about every two years. Grandma Hunley’s life was not an easy one. Not only did she lose four children, but it was also noted in her obituary that she was one of very few mothers who had three service stars hanging in her window, honoring three of her sons who served at the same time during WWI: Uncle Charlie, Uncle Jay, and my dad. I remember her as a very compassionate and loving person, and I loved her dearly. She was quite heavy—who wouldn’t be after bearing twelve children? I loved to go visit her and sit on her lap. It was made for cuddling! She certainly didn’t have any sharp edges, either physically or emotionally.

Ann Coleman, Susan’s mother (1834–1906).

She was a great storyteller. She also loved apples, as did I. She didn’t have any teeth, so she would scrape the apple with a knife and enjoy the taste that way. Whenever I was with her, as I sat on her lap, she would take a bite, the next one was mine, and so it went until the apple had been scraped to the core. Even now, if I close my eyes and scrape an apple, I have vivid recollections of that different taste and texture as we shared our apples.

My folks used to tell a story about when we lived across the alley from my grandparents. They say that I would run away each midmorning, about the time my grandfather came home for lunch. He was the custodian for the schools, and in order for him to be back on the playgrounds during the usual lunch hour, they ate early. Evidently, at about the age of two or so, I had this all figured out, knowing my grandma would let me eat with them. When I had finished, I would then run back to my home in time to share the noon meal with my parents. Is it any wonder I was such a roly-poly little girl?

When my grandmother died, the body was on view in the home, as was the custom at that time, and I remember kissing her goodbye. My parents asked if it was something I wanted to do. At age five that time, I’m sure I had no concept of death or the finality of it, but I did want to say goodbye to her. There was a large void in my young life after she was gone.

Chapter 3

My Kind of Town

As I have been in the process of woolgathering, looking for ideas for upcoming chapters, ideas just seem to come tumbling out. Putting these thoughts in some logical order, or importance, is going to take careful planning, since probably not every subject is newsworthy. There’s an old story your dad tells of the preacher who had diligently prepared his Sunday sermon only to find only one parishioner in attendance that morning because of the day being very stormy. Not to be deterred, he proceeded to deliver his carefully written and lengthy sermon to this one man. At the end of the service, the minister was standing in the back of the church, as was his usual custom, to greet the departing congregation, and he said to this man, How did you like the sermon? The man replied, Well, Pastor, as a farmer, if only one of my horses comes to the barn for some hay, I feed him, but I don’t give him the whole load. Hopefully, editing prudence will take over this writing and I won’t end up giving you the whole load.

For those who were raised in an urban environment, the thought of growing up in such a small town as Pawnee City, Nebraska, would probably seem like the most boring and unexciting existence one could imagine. In fact, when I was there recently for the reunion, driving around the town, looking at what had been and was no longer, I’ll have to admit that there was a feeling of sadness being a stranger in one’s hometown, a somewhat-deserted hometown. Many of the homes were still there, as were the buildings in the downtown area and other landmarks I remembered. But as with so many similar small towns throughout the country, the homes weren’t quite as well-kept, some of the buildings were boarded up, and the landmarks were left unattended.

Pawnee City had a population of about 1,500 at the time I lived there. An exodus of even just a few people each year will eventually take its toll on the overall vitality of such a small community. I talked with my two friends who chose to move back after having families and careers elsewhere. They find a certain comfort in being home again, with friends close by in familiar and safe surroundings. One moved back into the home of her parents and grandparents, and the other purchased the old family home of her ex-husband and has turned it into a beautiful showplace. So for some, living in Pawnee City continues to be a viable option.

For my family at that time, there was really no option about where we lived. Don’s family was different. Being the family of a Methodist minister, they expected to make a move to a new community every few years. We were in Pawnee to stay because of my dad’s job and wanting to be with his relatives. It was insular, but it was home, and it filled my young life with lots of fun and interesting experiences, especially as I grew up spending time with my aunts and uncles. Considering the nomadic life of future generations, living in the same place for most of one’s childhood may seem like a hardship, but it wasn’t at all.

If there was ever a prime example of small-town America, the Pawnee when I was growing up would definitely be in the running. In fact, if The Music Man’s Professor Harold Hill hadn’t found it prudent to leave the train when he did, trying to stay one railroad stop ahead of the authorities, he could just as easily have decided to hop off the train in Pawnee City, Nebraska. So okay, maybe it doesn’t have quite the same ring as River City, Iowa, but it was the same small Midwestern town, with a town square, an unattached Madam Librarian, probably a stuffy mayor, and if there wasn’t a ladies’ dance troupe, there was the singing Hunley quartet! There was also a very talented music director, armed not with credentials from the Gary Conservatory aught five but with legitimate music credentials from a real university. And his method of teaching music was a little more sophisticated than the think system!

Up until that time, the only piano teacher in town was Ms. Dutton, a very reclusive and elderly spinster. No one ever really knew her age. Then, Mr. Schrepel came to town. He was young, single, good-looking, and charismatic, all of which Ms. Dutton was not. However, he wasn’t interested in beginning students, taking only those who were more advanced. He charged $1 a lesson, while Ms. Dutton only charged a quarter. As students reached the required ability level, and assuming the parents could come up with the weekly dollar, they deserted poor Ms. Dutton. I began my lessons with her when I was about five. I would arrive at her house, and like with Amaryllis from The Music Man, my quarter would be tied in the corner of my handkerchief. After much pleading, I was allowed by my folks to change to Mr. Schrepel in the eighth grade, but I think they always felt sorry for Ms. Dutton, as did I. To her credit, most of the musicians from Pawnee had her to thank for the intensive musical training received under her watchful and demanding eyes and ears. Mr. Schrepel was hired as the music director for the school. To his credit, the Pawnee Band and Orchestra always won high ratings in regional and state competitions, as did its individual performers. It wasn’t cool not to play some kind of an instrument. He made the music program every bit as exciting and rewarding and cool as sports.

In addition to the music, Pawnee City, being the county seat of Pawnee County, had the requisite town square with the requisite county courthouse, complete with imposing pillars and marble. One of my uncles, John, worked as the custodian in the building. Uncle Johnny and my aunt lived in the basement of the courthouse, making it a very fun place to visit. On the corner of the square was the band shell for the Saturday-night band concerts. Parents and friends of the band brought their blankets to listen to rousing concerts under the stars. Saturday night was also the night for going to the picture show. My friends and I would go to the 7:00 p.m. show, after which we were allowed to walk the streets. We felt very grown-up and even hoped the boys were close behind us as we strolled. With so few streets in the downtown area to walk, none of this took very long, but we didn’t care because our parents were at the band shell, not hovering over us. Knowing the antennas parents are born with, we probably were being monitored anyway! At the end of the evening, we could make a stop at Huston’s Drug Store for their five-cent frosties—a real treat. Then it was a stop at the grocery store next door to buy the roast for Sunday’s dinner, a ritual that took place every weekend of the year.

There was one other drugstore in Pawnee City, Colwell’s, which served the best chocolate malted milks ever. At twenty-five cents, these treats didn’t happen quite as often as the frosties. One time, when my friend Gwen and I played a piano duet, dressed in our matching Shirley Temple dresses, for one of our mothers’ meetings, the hostess gave each of us a quarter and we headed right for the drugstore. I happened to be really sick that afternoon and should have been home in bed, but I wasn’t about to miss out on that malt! I think I threw up afterward, but it was worth it!

In addition to the drugstores, there were two banks, one on each corner of the block. Aunt Mary was at Citizen’s State, working there for fifty years. She always walked to and from work, and I would often stop by the bank so we could walk home together. Although I was never allowed behind the tellers’ bars, I could wait for her in a back room that had high desks and stools, the easier to work on the ledgers. I would sit on a stool, with paper and pencil in front of me, pretending I was a bank teller, working with all those figures. I’m sure I wasn’t allowed in the vaults, but I could look in, see the stacks of money, while visions of wealth floated through my head. I knew then that I would grow up to work in a bank, just like my aunt. Neither that dream nor the visions of wealth ever materialized.

Next to the bank was Jim Young’s Insurance Agency, where Aunt Abbie worked as a secretary. I would often stop in to see her and watch her do her secretarial things. Impressed, I decided that was what I would do when I grew up. Down the street was a store named Edee’s, which was owned by the family of one of my friends. Her grandfather had started it years before. In one of their display windows was where I first spotted the most beautiful pair of shoes I had ever seen—and I was only seven or eight at that time. A passion born! After I had begged and pleaded—I seemed to do a lot of that!—my mom told me I could have them if I earned the money. Thinking that was a good deal, I agreed, even after I discovered earning the money meant picking and selling strawberries. My dad had a large garden with a large strawberry patch, and I did, indeed, pick them. I went door-to-door, selling enough berries to pay for the shoes I wanted. That was quite an undertaking for someone my age, especially one who had an aversion to getting one’s hands dirty, but I finally got my first pair of the most beautiful pair of shoes!

There was also a library in Pawnee City, where Marian, Madam Librarian held forth, and who just happened to be one of Aunt Mary’s best friends. While she wasn’t exactly the movie’s Ms. Marian type, she was single, pretty, and dressed well. She also had a male friend who came by the library every night at nine to take her home. This certainly didn’t go unnoticed in Pawnee. There were always rumors and talk about their relationship—pick a little, talk a little innuendos—but even if I had heard them, I probably wouldn’t have known what the biddies were talking about! I’m not sure if those two ever married, but they certainly had a long and endearing friendship. I always thought they, as well as my aunts and parents, were really old people, as only children think. As it turns out, they were all in their thirties! On rare occasions, when Ms. French couldn’t be at the library in the evening, Aunt Mary would substitute for her, with me by her side. Imagine the thrill when I was allowed to stamp the due dates in a few of the books being checked out, especially if some of my friends happened to be there to watch me. Boy, did I feel important! And I was positive I would someday grow up to be a librarian! That exposure to the library and my aunt, who was an avid reader, did instill in me a love of reading from a very early age, and I thank her for that.

There were two grocery stores in town, for one of which an uncle was a butcher. It was always a fun place to stop and chat, knowing he would give me some kind of treat. There were a couple of dress shops, one of which the owner was another friend of Aunt Mary’s. I often went with her as she shopped. Even for Pawnee, the store seemed to have stylish selections. What fun it was to go through the racks, feeling the fabrics, deciding what my favorite colors were, noting the styles, etc. While my aunt tried on dresses, she often asked my opinion of some she was considering buying, and of course, I then decided my future would be in the retail business. In addition to that experience with clothing, it was fun to listen to the lady talk. It was not unusual for several of her friends to be in the store at the same time. I probably didn’t learn anything—they were all single—but I imagined I was being enlightened!

The movie theater was another favorite place. My parents never went to a show, but they didn’t object if I went with my aunt. As I mentioned, Saturday night was always showtime, and I never missed. Occasionally, I was allowed to go on a school night if the movie was something special. The couple who owned the theater also happened to be friends of my aunt (who wasn’t?), and if necessary, she was asked to fill in, selling tickets or popping the corn. And guess who sometimes got to help? I got to take tickets, again hoping my friends would be in attendance to see me being important! Another future career for me! Some of my favorite movies included the Shirley Temple series, Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald movies, Laurel and Hardy movies (my favorites!), Will Rogers movies, Snow White, Tarzan, The Wizard of Oz, to name a few. Actually, I think I saw more movies than I missed in those early days. It was a fun way to grow up.

I didn’t see the epic Gone with the Wind until much later, but I did read the book for the first time when I was about twelve. Some bits of movie trivia: (1) Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy were cast in fluffy white operettas, and they were dubbed the Iron Butterfly and the Singing Capon. (2) Another favorite of mine was an actor by the name of Spangler Arlington Bruce, better known as Robert Taylor. He was born in Beatrice, Nebraska. During summer visits to Beatrice with Aunt Florence, we would sometimes see his mother while shopping. I was impressed! (3) Shirley Temple’s four movies per year grossed over five million dollars, and her yearly salary was $300,000 plus royalties from merchandise. (4) Aunt Mary played the piano for some of the silent movies in Pawnee, before my time. Otherwise, I probably would have been with her, turning the pages of the music.

There was another business in town, this one where my dad would gather with his friends on Saturday nights. He didn’t always go to the band concerts. Instead, he would go to a garage owned by Mr. Haley, one of Dad’s former classmates and an Army buddy. Mr. Haley sold tires, oil, batteries, etc. Gwen and I, after going to the show and window-shopping, would meet my dad at the garage for our ride home. During the winter, Daddy and his friends would sit around the old potbelly stove, swapping war stories. Since there wasn’t much for Gwen and me to do in a garage, we sat and listened as the men talked at length. Later, as I thought of those times we waited, I realized these men also gossiped, although they would have all been quick to deny such an allegation. They complained about how the city was being run, the affairs of the nation, the effects of the Depression, and they even talked about whatever scandal might have been taking place in town at that time.

Even though Gwen and I were usually ready to leave, we both found it kind of fascinating to be a part of these conversations, although the men usually acted like we weren’t there. My dad was a quiet man, not always at ease in social situations, so these guy sessions must have been comfortable for him—a bonding, perhaps. It was always the same group of men, those who had grown up and been in the service together, and they remained friends forever. Mr. Young always left at 9:00 p.m., the library closing time.

There were several assorted small businesses, including the Star I. At that time, while eating out was certainly not an option for our family, the I was a gathering place for the locals, especially those who worked downtown, and it remained so for years to come. There was a furniture store with an adjoining mortuary business, owned by the Wherry family. Their son was in my kindergarten class, and he’s the ex-husband whose home my friend remodeled. There was one other store in town. It was a clothing store for men and boys. I always enjoyed tagging along when my folks would go shopping for Daddy or Chuck. I liked looking at the neat piles of shirts, sweaters, and pants, noting how cleverly they were displayed, my retailing career in the making. This store was owned by a family named Sawyer. And yes, they did, indeed, have a son named Tom, who also happened to be in my kindergarten class. Could this have been any more quaint?

As I describe what downtown Pawnee was like, you probably think it couldn’t be more provincial. It might, indeed, have been provincial, but it was my home and my family and my childhood and a wonderful place to grow up in.

Chapter 4

Grandpa Hunley

Betty’s grandpa Harrington Landon Hunley, with sons Bill, John, and Harrington, 1908.

Finding the best way to describe Grandfather Hunley isn’t easy. He was a formidable man. He gave the appearance of being very stern, with his long white beard. Santa Claus, he wasn’t! If Grandma was soft, Grandpa was just the opposite—in my thinking, that is. I certainly never sat on his lap and shared apples. The old saying Children should be seen and not heard was taken literally by people of that era, especially men. I don’t remember ever having a conversation with Grandpa. However, I will admit that, as shy as I was as a little girl, if he had tried to extend his hand in friendship, I might very well have turned away in my usual bashful manner. Mom would never have said anything negative about him, but I know he made her uncomfortable. Perhaps he just didn’t have the time for parenting or grandparenting because of the struggles of taking care of his large family. The older granddaughters didn’t live in Pawnee, and Carolyn was a difficult child. Even though Chuck and I were delightful little grandchildren, Grandpa didn’t seem to enjoy us in the way we enjoy our grandchildren today. Too bad.

As mentioned previously, Grandpa worked for many years as the custodian in the schools. He retired around 1940. The family moved from the farm into town in 1891. Grandpa probably started the school job sometime around the turn of the century. All the brothers, including my dad, as the youngest, had to help Grandpa with the cleaning and upkeep of the two school buildings, working long hours each afternoon after school. There is a family picture, taken on the grounds of the old high school building, showing one of the older brothers pushing a lawn mower and my dad with a rope around his waist, attached to the mower, pulling. The school was on a whole city block, as was the grade school, which meant there was a lot of yard work to be done in addition to the maintenance of the school buildings. My dad always said that none of the siblings ever got into trouble, partly because they never had the time or money, but mostly because they feared their father’s wrath. And since he was in the school buildings every day, he would have been the first to know if any of the Hunley children had problems.

If the above worked for my dad’s generation, it also worked for mine. One day when I was in the sixth grade, we were having an early-morning test in history. There were four of us, one sitting at the desk directly in front of me and two sitting across the aisle. One of the foursome was my friend Gwen, and one of the others was David Wherry, the ex-husband referred to earlier. David was having trouble with one of the questions, and he asked for help. Because the rest of us knew the answer, we decided to be helpful, so we gave him the answer. Well, as so often happens, the teacher came by at that very moment to ask what was going on, and the recipient squealed! Even though this had never happened to those of us who were being helpful, the teacher made us stay in at recess, while the squealer got off free! We were mad but also glad the punishment wasn’t more severe, seeing as how we didn’t think there had even been a crime.

And we certainly didn’t think the incident was worth repeating to anyone, namely our parents. However, I failed to take into account the fact that I had a grandfather lurking in the halls, with see-all-know-all-hear-all capabilities. And sure enough, when I arrived home for lunch, my parents met me at the door, my father with his hands crossed on his chest, and my mother with her dark eyes flashing, in anger, not merriment! Grandpa, with his early lunch hour, had called my parents, and the rest of the story wasn’t good. I don’t actually remember what my punishment was. The action was probably nothing too severe since I didn’t have many liberties to begin with. But I do remember the words! My parents could never seem to understand that I was only trying to help!

The following story doesn’t have anything to do with my grandfather, but there are some similarities to the previous story. It’s about Don wanting to be helpful to a classmate when they were in the sixth grade at Omaha Lothrop Grade School. There was a girl by the name of Katherine Bestor, who was not only cute but was also a tap dancer. She was especially cute in her tap-dancing costume, according to Don. She was a sixth-grade kind of love—neither words nor actions. Because she wasn’t very bright academically, probably an understatement with her Cs and Ds, Don felt sorry for her and thought the teacher was picking on her. Since he was easily getting As in all his classes, he came up with a plan. He would go to the teacher with the offer of sharing his grades with Katherine, and their individual grades would then average out to Bs. As it turned out, he didn’t have the nerve to actually go through with the plan. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if their all-A son had suddenly brought home a report card with less than As? As he was telling me this story, he said it was probably too bad that he didn’t go to the teacher. It would have been one of those stories she would have told and retold over the years.

Grandpa had a fondness for white peppermint lozenges and longhorn cheese. There were always bowls of these items sitting on the kitchen table. Whenever I stopped by the house, I knew I could always get treats—they became favorites of mine too. I learned early not to take the last peppermint or chunk of cheese, however, especially if there weren’t reserve stocks on the shelf. He was generous with these treats, but only up to a certain point!

After we moved to Rulo, he came down to spend a few days with us, which surprised everyone. At that time, the house and landscaping were very new, so it seemed very barren. In addition, both Mom and I hadn’t been there long enough to become acclimated. In truth, we weren’t adjusting well to the move. Mom was happy for the little bit of green in the newly planted bushes, however, making it seem a little homier, even if the shrubbery was quite sparse.

One day, Grandpa went outside and, without asking, proceeded to trim back every single bush. To say that Mom was upset would be putting it mildly. She was furious! Of course, as it turned out, this was the best way to treat the plants, the trimming making them much fuller the next summer. But my mother didn’t see the logic at that time. She saw only puny little twigs sticking out of the ground! I remember the difficulty she was having with Grandpa, trying to be nice and pleasant while all the time she was seething inside. Those dark eyes were really flashing, and she didn’t hide the fact very well! I think my dad heard about this for a long time.

If Grandpa’s social skills were lacking, his gardening skills certainly were not. He was considered one of the best gardeners in town, and he knew what he was doing at our house. His vegetables were always the biggest and best, the fruit from his trees the juiciest, and his flowers the brightest. He was not only proud of his talent but was also very generous with family and friends, purposely overplanting so that he could share his bountiful crops. If there were times when he seemed less intimidating, it was when someone wanted to talk gardening, a subject he never tired of. Mom did learn that asking for gardening tips was a sure way to his heart. He often took bouquets to the school, and he always let me have flowers for my May baskets every year. However, I was never allowed to pick them myself, since I didn’t know the correct cutting procedures! Along with his beautiful roses and tulips, he had large lilac bushes, my favorites. If I didn’t share conversations with him, I at least have fond memories of those visits in his big garden, where the apples shared with Grandma probably came from.

Harrington Landon Hunley, Bill’s father, 1907.

Larkin Himley, Betty’s great-grandpa, son of Experience Hunley, Harrington’s father.

Harrington Hunley with son Bill and grandson Chuck Betty’s paternal grandfather, father, and brother.

Chapter 5

Down by the Old Millstream or The Cow Jumped Over the Moon

The following is a true story. Making that statement, I wonder, Am I saying that what I’ve already written is not true? Actually, this story fits more in an unbelievable category than those previously written. It’s a little lengthy, but there’s no abbreviated way to tell the story, and I feel it should be recorded for posterity.

During my dad’s job with the Pawnee Water Department, the main plant was fairly close to downtown. If you kids remember the plant at Rulo, the one in Pawnee was similar, just smaller. It housed the holding tanks, lots of filtering equipment, gauges, pumps, and whatever else it took to get the purified water flowing into the city pipes for community use. It was always fun to spend time there—lots of action and noise. For the record, I didn’t want to do that when I grew up! As in Rulo, the water supply came not from an island in the Missouri River but from wells that had been drilled on land adjacent to Turkey Creek, the old millstream, which flowed along the outskirts of town. I don’t think this creek amounted to much, but it was the only water table available. During the spring, there was usually serious flooding, covering all the land for miles along the banks. For that reason, the little pump houses were built high on concrete foundations. These were small and very simple structures, probably ten by ten, with a set of rather-crude wooden steps leading to a door with a padlock. They probably sat about five feet off the ground to guard against the flooding. Inside were the main pumps, which pumped the water out of the ground and into the main water plant. Each house had two windows.

Part of my dad’s job was to check on these pumps with some regularity. He usually did the checking just before he came home in the evening, but sometimes he would need to go back after supper if conditions warranted. The land the pump house sat on belonged to a farmer, and because he often had cattle grazing in the fields, the whole area was fenced in. Occasionally, my friend Gwen and I would ride along in the old city truck when Daddy had to do some checking. The path from the fence to the pump house, about a mile and a half or so, was filled with ruts, making the ride extremely bumpy. He always drove fast, just to give us a thrill, so we bounced around like popcorn kernels!

One summer Saturday night, after a band concert, he felt it necessary to check the pumps. Because of the rough ground, he never drove the family car into the pasture. Since we were in the family car that night, he asked if I wanted to walk along with him, leaving Mom in the car along the side of the road with baby Chuck, who had fallen asleep. I had walked with him before, and this was a warm night with a very bright full moon, so I was happy to go with him. Before heading into the pasture, he always checked to see if the cattle were anywhere close by. On this particular night, with the full moon to aid him, he didn’t see any in sight. Since the pasture was very large, he must have felt they were safely in a far corner. So off we went, chatting away, enjoying the warm night air and full moon.

All of a sudden—and I can still remember the sound—a bull, the cow, came bearing down on us as fast as a bull can bear. While not exactly the sound of a thundering herd (all those cowboy movies I had seen), even one member of a herd was making a very loud and frightening noise. I was about seven at that time and not very big or fast. Note: Not all the details of the story are from my own memory. Some are from hearing my dad tell about the incident. Everything happened so fast that the details became blurry.

The bull came charging at us. I do remember hearing him as he got closer. My dad had to think fast. Even if there had been time to pick me up, Daddy knew carrying me would only slow him down. So he grabbed my arm and began running as fast as he could, pulling me along, my feet barely hitting the ground. Fortunately, he was young, was in good shape, and had always been very athletic. We were about halfway to the pump house when all this occurred, which meant we still had a ways to go. The bull was gaining on us.

It probably didn’t help matters that I happened to be wearing a red dress! With my father dragging me along behind him, it probably looked to the bull like someone was taunting him, waving a red flag in the air! As we got closer to the pump house, Daddy knew he didn’t have a large-enough lead to make it up the steps, much less have time to open the padlock, before the bull caught up with us. So he began running around the pump house, still dragging me behind him, each time gaining a little on the bull that slowed a little at each turn. As he ran around the pump house, Daddy gained enough time and distance so that we were several feet behind the bull rather than in front of him.

It just so happened that one of the windows in the pump house had been left open. Spotting that, on the next go-round, my dad told me not to be afraid but he was going to have to try to throw me up and into the window, which was exactly what he did! He literally tossed me up and over the windowsill. I remember that happening! Of course, I was frightened to death and began crying once I landed in the pump house. I started crying, not so much because I was hurt, but because my dad was still running around the building as the bull kept getting closer, and I was all alone in this dark little house. I remember that feeling, too, of being alone and terribly scared. Again, he had to make several turns around the building in order to get way ahead of the bull, as he had done before. He knew he would only have one chance to try to get into the window, so when he was far enough ahead of the bull, he stopped under the open window and he jumped! He managed to catch the lower windowsill and pull himself in!

There we were, stranded in the pump house, one very exhausted father and one very scared little girl. We were safe, for the time being, but how would we get back to the car? I was still crying from fright and imagining I was hurt. Daddy told me I would have to try to stop because, as long as the bull could hear the noise, he wouldn’t go away. We stayed there for a very long time; it seemed like forever. Because of the full moon, we could see and hear the bull clearly snorting and pawing the ground. Finally, finally, the bull gave up and wandered off.

Even then, Daddy waited a long time before he felt it was safe to leave. Because the door was locked from the outside with the padlock, the only way out of the pump house was back through the window. My dad jumped to the ground. He then had me jump so he could catch me. As you can imagine, that didn’t happen easily. He had to do a lot of coaxing to get me to jump. Thinking that my red dress might have caused the bull to take chase in the first place, he had me take it off before we left the pump house. I remember we didn’t run, not wanting to make any sounds to bring back the bull, but we did what would now be called power walking, moving as fast as my little legs would go, returning safely to our car, and to a very, very worried mother! She, of course, had no idea what could have taken us so long on that clear, beautiful, full-moon, warm summer evening.

Sometime after the incident, my dad stood beside the pump house under the window. He tried several times but could not jump high enough to even touch the bottom windowsill, much less pull himself up. He had no idea how he was able to jump in the window or toss me that high. It was one of those incidents when the impossible happened, falling into the category of believe it or not!

Chapter 6

Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins by the Dozens

Donald James Carlyon, New York City, 1944.

Growing up in Pawnee had lots of advantages, namely the actual dozens of family members, some of whom have already been mentioned. Uncle Jay, Carolyn, Uncle John and Aunt Hazel V, Aunt Hazel, Uncle Rev and Betty Alice, Aunt Abbie and Uncle Walt, Aunt Mary, Aunt Florence, and Grandpa. They were all interesting people, individually and collectively, as well as being hardworking, law-abiding, honest, and God-fearing people. On the other side of the coin, none would be considered setting-the-world-on-fire kind of people. Blowing one’s own horn was never encouraged. However, on those occasions when everyone got together, they weren’t above gossiping about those who were blowing their horns.

The family gathered quite often, especially for holiday meals together. I remember others telling of the huge dinners Grandma always cooked and baked for all her family before she died. They said she was an excellent cook. When Aunt Florence came back to Pawnee City to live with and keep house for Grandpa and Mary, she put her culinary talents to work. I remember the table would always be loaded with umpteen dishes and platters of food! I can also remember how terribly uncomfortable I felt after the meal, like I could easily burst—I was so full. Oh, but how much fun it was! These gatherings always took place right at twelve o’clock sharp, which meant there was plenty of time to let the food digest so that they could all go back to the groaning board for leftovers before leaving.

In the society section of the local paper, it would frequently be reported that a certain family gathered for a candlelight Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner, served stylishly at 4:00 p.m. The article always listed the family members in attendance. As I read of these gatherings, I always wondered why the Hunleys felt it necessary to eat at the unstylish hour of twelve o’clock! This was when I got to be a little older and more aware of style, or lack thereof. I even got up enough nerve one time to suggest we might wait until later in the afternoon. You can imagine the negative response and looks I got from all those hungry relatives! For as long as the dinners continued, the time never wavered. When out-of-town relatives visited, the dining room table wasn’t large enough for everyone, so there were two seatings. The first seating was for Grandpa at the head of the table, of course, and the uncles and aunts or cousins who said they were just in the way in the kitchen. The second seating was for the cousins and those who chose to wait, and Aunt Florence, who rarely sat down.

Talking and eating weren’t the only pastimes at these gatherings. At some point, Mary would sit down at the piano and the singing would begin. They loved to sing, and I loved to hear them sing. Other than eating, that was always my favorite time of the afternoon. I referred to the Hunley quartet earlier, and they did, indeed, have their own quartet, singing at various gatherings in town. On these family occasions, however, everyone joined in, except my dad. For some reason, he either didn’t want to or felt he couldn’t sing; he preferred to listen. Some of the aunts told me they thought he had the best voice of all, but I never heard him sing or even hum. Aunt Abbie sang soprano, Aunt Hazel alto, Uncle Jay tenor, and Uncle John bass. Aunt Florence didn’t sing in the quartet, but she liked to sing along at the family gatherings. Most of the quartet’s public appearances were for funerals. Sometimes the aunts would sing duets. The one most in demand, however, was Uncle John with his deep baritone voice. The song most requested from him was Asleep in the Deep, with the octave range going down to lower C, and he hit it every time. Goose bump inspiring!

Shortly after our marriage, Don and I went with my folks to one of the family dinners in Pawnee. This was the first time the extended family had the pleasure of meeting my new husband. It was an experience for them, as well as for Don. If the truth were known, the family as a whole wasn’t quite sure what to make of this less-than-quiet young man who had come into their lives. That wasn’t too surprising, since my parents were still trying to decide if they could trust him with their only daughter! However, since he had been born and raised in a parsonage and the church, albeit Methodist, which the Baptist Hunleys didn’t consider a real church, they were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. No need to worry! Don quickly ingratiated himself into the family as he sat down to the family dinner and proceeded to enjoy everything put in front of him! Not only did he eat everything, but it was also obvious he was in seventh heaven, having been raised on all those church dinners!

Thereafter, while the family might not have always understood him, they figured that anyone who liked to eat that much couldn’t be all bad! He also teased the aunts, which they loved. Some of you kids had the pleasure of knowing some of these relatives, with your own memories of visits. When Uncle Jay married Nellie, going to visit them was another gastronomical experience. Nellie was an equally great cook. Her burnt-sugar cake was out of this world!

Chapter 7

The Courthouse

The Hunley brothers, Charles, Jay, John, and William (Betty’s dad), circa 1916.

This is about my uncle John and aunt Hazel V, the ones who lived in the courthouse. The reason my aunt was called Hazel V was that there was another aunt in the family with the same name, my dad’s youngest sister. Hazel V’s maiden name was Vanderslice, hence the V. They were a funny couple. Uncle John was a large man, a very large man. He