Over the Fence, Into the Heart: Stories and Essays Based on the Author's Popular Newspaper Column

By Kay Cora Jewett

"Kay Cora Jewett has an amazing ability to paint pictures of people and places with her words. I could really relate, as I'm sure most readers will, to all the family dynamics – as well as to the sights and smells and sounds of the past she so aptly describes. Once I started reading, I couldn't stop. It's as if she pulled back the curtain and let us look into her soul." – Marvin Wilson


Told with a touching sensitivity, these wide-ranging stories and essays cast a spell that often envelops the reader in another time and place. Along the way, striking events and memories illustrate the value of courage and perseverance, as well as the unrelenting elusiveness of time.

Kay Cora Jewett takes you on a journey that chronicles her early bout with polio, her tumultuous and sometimes dangerously naive school years, and her unusually diverse careers. Accompany her on a walk through the mean streets of 1960s Chicago as she visits her welfare clients, or witness an encounter with a Vogue photographer as she flirts with the possibility of fame. Laugh at her problem-plagued but inspiring time as a magazine publisher. Follow her through the challenges of a remarkable life, including the deaths of a child, a sister, and some cherished and memorable friends. Get lost in the enchanting tales of her many beloved and exceptional animals.

"Over the Fence, Into the Heart" is a mix of humor, hope, derring-do, and sometimes tragedy. The author's observations are based on a unique and perceptive view of life. Readers will find themselves alternately laughing, crying, and shaking their heads, but always reading on with anticipation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667899305

Kay Cora Jewett

Kay Cora Bostdorf Jewett was born and raised in rural Ohio. She earned her undergraduate degree in English from The Ohio State University and did graduate work in history at San Francisco State University. She is a retired magazine editor and enjoys writing poetry, as well as stories for children in the middle grades. Kay lives in northwest Oregon with her husband and several beloved family pets. Over the Fence, Into the Heart is her debut book. Please contact her at kaycorajewett.com

Book preview

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Praise from Readers of

Over the Fence

I really look forward to your columns because I can so relate to your stories. They come from your heart and observations of the world around you, which I find fascinating and entertaining. I quickly get drawn into the story and feel like I was there and a part of it. Your insights, humor, and reflections are inspiring. Thank you for providing a respite from everyday worries. – Candace Piazza

***

I just want to thank you for Remembering Cousin Dale and ALL of your columns, which I have long found to be the best feature of the Spokesman (and any other Pamplin Media paper, for that matter). Destination reading is what you provide for many, I suspect. You carry your reading voyagers with a warm, genuine heart and soul, an oasis of veracity in a newsprint desert.

With greatest appreciation for the authenticity and joy you bring to others. – George Stoddard

***

I just finished your column The Face of War. I’m a Nam vet, and it brought tears to my eyes. You captured the essence. That column will ring true for many who were there. We left Vietnam, but Vietnam has never left us.

– Michael Holm

I just read your article When the World Falls Apart, Dance Can Cure. My adult son died by suicide in June 2012, and like you, I found solace in dancing among my friends. I called it my dance therapy.

I wanted you to know that your story touched my heart, and I’m sure it touched others as well. Thank you for allowing us all a little glimpse into your life and a reminder that like you said, there is magic and healing in dance. – Stephanie Holladay

***

I really enjoy reading Kay Cora Jewett’s Over the Fence stories and commentary, which always provide nuanced insights into the issues she writes about. There is clarity and thought in each paragraph which makes one think about one’s self and life.

It’s difficult to resist the pull of her storytelling once hooked! Jewett is a local writer who has provided us with some of the finest writing this locale has produced. – Dick Spence

***

These stories truly touch my heart. They often trigger fond memories from a kinder, gentler time long ago. What a pleasure to read. I definitely will recommend this book to my book club! – Pat Drew Trudel

This is a work of nonfiction. All people, locations, and situations are portrayed to the best of the author’s memory.

Copyright © 2023 by Kay Cora Jewett. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be

reproduced or used in any way without permission from the publisher (except for reviews,

quotes with attributions, and purposes of promotion).

Acknowledgment of permission to reprint excerpts from the following copyrighted works:

Hey Jude

Words and Music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Copyright © 1968 Sony Music Publishing (U.S.) LLC

Copyright Renewed

All Rights Administered by Sony Music Publishing (U.S.) LLC,

424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219

International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

With A Little Help from My Friends

Words and Music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Copyright © 1967 Sony Music Publishing

Copyright renewed

All Rights Administered by Sony Music Publishing (U.S.) LLC,

424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219

International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

You Always Hurt the One You Love

Words and Music by Allan Roberts and Doris Fisher

Copyright © 1944 ALLAN ROBERTS MUSIC CO. and DORIS FISHER MUSIC

Copyright Renewed

All Rights for DORIS FISHER MUSIC Controlled and

Administered by UNIVERSAL MUSIC CORP.

All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

I Only Have Eyes For You

Words by Al Dubin

Music by Harry Warren

© 1934 (Renewed) WC MUSIC CORP.

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission of Alfred Music

Photo of John M. Bostdorf by permission from the John M. Bostdorf Collection

Original poetry by Kay Cora Jewett

Printed in the United States of America

Over the Fence, Into the Heart is available through major book

distributors in paper, hardcover, and all major eBook platforms

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available by writing

P.O. Box 2192, Wilsonville, Oregon 97070.

ISBN: 978-1-66789-929-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66789-930-5

Dedication

To my patient, supportive, and exquisitely nice husband, Stiles, and my beautiful children, Catherine and James. Especially to my grandchildren, Cora and Clary, who bring light and joy into my world.

Contents

1. Dedication

2. Preface

PART I Family Ties and a Place Called Home

3. The Phone Call

4. The Superhero

5. What’s in a Name?

6. For the Luck of the Irish

7. The Importance of Grandmothers

8. The Sun Cookies

9. My Grandfather’s Violin

10. The Art of the Squabble

11. Cousin Dale

12. A Farmer’s Daughter

13. The Gold Diggers’ Ball

14. Survival of the Fittest

15. The Gift

16. What DNA Actually Means

17. It’s All in the Genes

18. Love at First Sight

19. A Place Called Home

20. This Old House

21. Let’s Get Rid of It

22. The Holiest of Holidays

23. The Miracle

24. Growing Pains

25. Haunted

26. The Reunion

27. Mac’s War

PART II Getting Educated

28. Drawing on the Canvas

29. Another World

30. Dancing in the Dark (Ages)

31. Beginnings

32. Bad-Boy Bully

33. Forever Young

34. It Was Always about the Prom

35. The Bee Hive

36. EYE-yi-yi!

37. A True Calling

38. An Awakening

39. Not So Glamorous

40. Dithering in D.C.

41. All the News That’s Fit to Print (and Some That Isn’t)

42. Falling Apart

PART III Creatures Great and Small

43. Chucking It

44. My Kingdom for a Horse

45. Life in the Fast Lane

46. The Night Owl

47. The Champion

48. Remembering Chablis

49. A Horse of a Different Color

50. Over the Rainbow

51. Legends of the Fall

52. Oh, You Beautiful Mutt

53. So Long, Teddy

54. Why I Own a Mare

55. A Small Gift, but a Big Surprise

56. Old Eagle Eye

PART IV Kindred Souls

57. If Cars Could Talk

58. Living on the Edge

59. New Year’s Eve, circa 1959

60. My Funny Valentine

61. The Happy Camper

62. On Being Invincible

63. Letting Go of Eddie O.

64. So You Want to Learn to Ski

65. Uh-Oh! The Skeletons Are Out of the Closet

66. Gone Missing

67. The Cherished Letter

68. Forever and a Day

69. First Kiss

70. Great Kiss

71. Defining Faith

72. Lost between the Cards

PART V Roads Traveled (and Some Best Forgotten)

73. Speaking in Moo

74. The Perilous Road

75. The Cooking Class

76. Bumper to Bumper

77. Ladies and Gentlemen—The Rolling Bones! er … Stones!

78. Third Time’s a Charm

79. Muling the Grand Canyon

80. A Hard Time

81. A Sunny Disposition

82. Touched by the Cosmos

83. The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports

84. The Dark Side of Sailing

85. Going Home

PART VI

Slouching toward Wisdom

86. Scared #@*&%-less

87. The Sixth Sense

88. When Yes Is the Right Answer

89. Like a Thief in the Night

90. Life’s a Journey. Pack Books.

91. Never Give Up

92. Out to Lunch

93. Caught in the Headlights

PART VII Musings from Left Field

94.D.I.E.T., aka Did I Eat That?

95. Hey Jude, Take Me Back

96. Coffee Creek Prison

97. www.letmeoutofhere.com

98. Getting Your Scare On

99. The Vanishing Letter

100. Should You Ask Alexa?

101. The Dangerous Handshake

102. Media Memories

103. The All-American Nightmare

104. Hangin’ with Methuselah

105. The Junque Mystique

106. Our Lives in Books

107. How Cars Define Our Lives

108. The Face of War

109. The Truth Is in the Music

110. Author’s Note

111. Acknowledgments

112. About the Author

Preface

Over the Fence is the name of my newspaper column, where personal stories and essays have appeared in Pamplin Media Group publications since 2015. Some of the stories have been expanded; many are new. My memories and musings are recorded in these columns, and together they form a compendium of my life and tell a story that encompasses both adversity and joy.

I have had remarkable experiences that now linger deep in memory. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. Because I have so many memories, my mind’s eye is a kaleidoscope that never stops turning.

The earliest image I can recall is of my mother bending over me and holding me lightly in her arms, offering me her soft and powdered breast. That image is somehow still fresh all these years later, and it is unforgettable. Another remnant of memory records my father lifting me awkwardly because of my polio-induced torpor and placing me ever so gently in my bed. My father was not a gentle man, so that image, too, is indelible. As time passed, those safe, reassuring tableaus receded into the mist, but the memories are still alive and live on in these pages.

I have written this book because, in the end, as we wonder what we can leave of ourselves in this world, it becomes clear that all we can really do is tell our stories.

Kay Cora Jewett

2023

Somewhere between raising hell and amazing grace is

a place I keep finding myself. —Big Rich

PART I

Family Ties and a

Place Called Home

Other things may change us,

but we start and end with family.

— Anthony Brandt

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave and

grow old wanting to get back to.

— John Ed Pearce

–1–

The Phone Call

Kay Cora, this is your Aunt Lou, the quaking voice said.

It was the first time in my adult life that my aunt had called me on the telephone – she lived 3000 miles away and was quite wary of such extravagances.

What is it? What’s the matter? I asked.

Are you alone, honey? Is anyone with you?

I heard the echo of my own voice. "No, what’s wrong?’

I went over to see your dad this morning, and when I walked in . . . I found him, and he was gone!

The last word exploded into a choking sob.

God in Heaven, I whispered.

It seemed, at the time, to be the only reasonable comment. I still don’t know whether I uttered it in anger or in prayer.

My father, C.E. Bostdorf, was dead. I had sent him Christmas gifts a few days ago and mailed him his birthday card that very morning. I had made elaborate arrangements with his neighbor to install cable television as a surprise gift, courtesy of the three of us – my brother, sister, and me. I knew that his annual Christmas check to the family was in the mail and that I would soon be hearing from a dead man.

My father had not been well, but we expected him to live forever, anyway. I’m sure his persona will, at least as long as any of us are around to remember.

Attempting to describe someone of my father’s ilk is a challenge, but I will tell you a little about his actions, which will tell you a little about his personality.

One of the principal tenets among the peculiar and unfathomable rules my father lived by was that he never warned anyone when he planned to visit. I have many childhood memories of going to town with him and dropping in on usually robe-clad, often drunk, sometimes affair-having, frequently arguing but always unsuspecting visitees. Once we were there, it was never a matter of overstaying our welcome, since we were never welcome in the first place. But we stayed and stayed. Father liked to see people as they really were.

So it was with small surprise that I glanced out my kitchen window in the spring of 1978 and spotted my father, whom I had not seen in two years, grinning back at me. Never mind that he lived in Florida and I lived in California, and that when we had spoken on the phone three days before, the weather had been our only topic of conversation. My father was just ‘‘dropping in," as he liked to call it.

Unfortunately, dropping in with him were my loathsome stepmother (Snow White had nothing on me) and their two children – that is, two spoiled and ill-tempered Yorkshire Terriers. These are normally tiny, unprepossessing creatures who hardly qualify as dogs. But the ancestors of these two must have cavorted with Tasmanian devils sometime during their evolutionary history.

As it turned out, this would be the last time my father visited me, although he lived another twelve years.

***

Well, J-e-e-e-zus Ch-r-r-ist! (his favorite epithet). Why the hell didn’t you move up in the hills?

This was said with his customary sarcasm; our house could be reached only in a first-gear climb for well over a quarter of a mile.

Phoebe and Corki burst from my father’s van in a cacophony of yelps and snarls. Corki quickly proceeded to lift his tiny leg on every bush he could get to before being scooped up into the loving arms of my unloving stepmother. It was particularly grating that she and my father had named this mini-mongrel after my beloved and departed mother.

Now, Corki, she said. You behave yourself.

Of course, she didn’t mean it. Corki had never behaved himself in his life, and no one expected him to begin now.

Hi, Phoebe, I said, reaching down to give the smaller copy of Corki a perfunctory pat. My reflexes are fast, so my hand retreated to safety just before the lunge.

It was time to move inside. My stepmother was already at the door, trying to turn the knob and juggle Corki at the same time.

She was a tiny woman, 4 feet, 10 inches tall, 95 pounds, all told. She had once been the proprietress of a beauty shop and looked the part – elegantly coiffed, billowy white hair with a touch of blue; heavy on the makeup, the aqua apparel, the crimson nail polish, and Some Enchanted Evening perfume.

My father, a retired farmer, complemented her perfectly. His tall, large, muscled-gone-to-fat frame, red-plaid woolen shirt, brown baggy pants, and thick Havana cigar provided a striking but somehow fitting contrast. They did, after all, have the same taste.

Once inside, the dogs manifested personality traits that put one in mind of the Hounds of Hell. My cat was cornered and transformed from a sweet, soft thing into a gigantic porcupine-like, howling, spitting caricature of her former self.

Corki soon raced to the nearest piece of furniture to stake out his territory.

Here, now, Corki! my father shouted in vain, making a half-hearted attempt to discourage the ceremonial leg lift. Too late.

Phoebe charged after my three-year-old daughter, nipping at her heels and eliciting the kind of tooth-rattling shriek that only a three-year-old can muster.

It took about five minutes to calm my daughter, another five to disentangle the cat from the curtain she had welded herself to, and a further indefinite period to clean up the territorial stake-out. Of course, I could not allow myself the normal reaction of insisting that the dogs stay outside or in the basement. Such an idea would have been tantamount to telling my father I didn’t love him. Love me, love my dogs.

I looked at my watch. My father and his entourage had arrived thirty minutes ago, and if past history could be relied on, we had another six days to go . . .

But that didn’t happen. My father and stepmother left in a huff after only three days. They said they were offended because their dogs weren’t welcome, and that was true. It was a hard thing to hide.

I did not feel guilty when they left. I was feeling pretty offended, myself. I should mention that they had recently made a surprise visit to my brother Mac and his wife, Julie. Once there, they waited until Mac and Julie left on some errands and then rearranged the furniture throughout the house to suit their own taste. When my brother returned, he said they seemed quite proud of themselves. Julie did not shoot them. I’ve always admired her for that.

It would be easy for me to dislike my father heartily. Instead, I find myself ambivalent. He was a brash, eccentric, embarrassing man who was careless of other people’s feelings. He was cold and hostile to my brother and me growing up, and only later did I figure out that this was probably because of his jealousy over our mother’s attention to us. He was also a gruff, rugged farmer, but he exhibited great tenderness in caring for his critically ill child (me). This was the same man who delighted in buying me dolls and awkwardly tried to comfort me when I was scared. He was, to say the least, a confoundingly complicated human being.

He was also extraordinarily talented and won awards for the perfection of his crops each year. Despite having had very little formal education, he drew up plans for houses and built them himself. He was a cunning poker player and did well in the stock market. Mechanically, he was a genius. People who knew him remember him vividly and still laugh at his outrageous bravado. Whatever they thought of him, they never forgot him.

Neither have I.

–2–

The Superhero

She appeared from the fiery, blackening mist of an explosion that was meant to destroy her. Yet, against all odds, she overcame another attempt by the bad guys to take her life. Wonder Woman was a wonder, you see. Exceedingly tall and beautiful with brilliant blue eyes and long raven hair, she was a vision to behold. She was also tough, powerful, spirited, skilled, and courageous.

Sound like a trailer for a Wonder Woman movie? It’s not. Instead, it springs from my memory as a four-year-old looking at pictures of my superhero in the pages of DC comics. When I knew her, which was fairly early in her existence, she couldn’t fly as she can now. However, she did have some other superpowers. On her head, for instance, was a tiara that was also a projectile, which, after being used to dispatch a bad guy, would return to her hand like a boomerang. At her hip was a golden lasso, known as The Lasso of Truth. This weapon forced whoever was tied up with it to tell the truth. It could also restore memory. Included in this armory were her silver bracelets, which were forged from the shield of Zeus and could project lightning blasts and deflect bullets. Pretty nifty.

To my four-year-old self, all this made Wonder Woman terrifically exciting. Maybe she left such a deep impression on me, though, because I was seriously ill at the time with polio. The illness occurred just before the invention of the Salk vaccine and, I figure, contributed to my vivid imagination. I remember spending hours in anticipation whenever a new Wonder Woman comic came out. My worried farmer father would time his trips into town so that he would be there to buy the latest issue as soon as it was delivered to the drugstore.

When it came down to it, the real allure was that Wonder Woman was everything I was not – that is, tall and strong and brave and indestructible. Put that image before a four-year-old who is bedridden and afraid of being crippled for life, and you have the birth of a life-long idol. Wonder Woman always won, and I was determined to win, too. Every night, after my parents thought I was asleep, I would get up and walk a few steps, just to prove I could.

When the movie was released, I simply had to see it. It turns out that the Wonder Woman on the screen wasn’t exactly as I remembered her, but she was close – and guess what? I can still identify with her. I don’t possess The Lasso of Truth or the boomerang tiara, but I do imagine that I sometimes wear the silver bracelets. At least, I’ve been able to dodge a lot of bullets in my life, polio being one of them, and I like to think I borrowed some of that backbone from my brave and determined idol.

So welcome back, Wonder Woman. I’ve missed you.

–3–

What’s in a Name?

My grandfather, Howard McCormick, was a product of his rural Missouri upbringing. He was gruff, hard-working, indisputably right about everything, and, yes, stubborn as a Missouri mule. One of the things he was both right and stubborn about was that most children he came across were named incorrectly. He began with his own child, my mother, whose old-fashioned name was Cora. He evidently thought she was misnamed. Perhaps he had no choice in the matter, since my grandmother was also stubborn and exceptionally talented at getting her way. Whatever the reason, he always addressed my mother as Johnny. Not once in all the years I observed them interacting as a family did I hear him call her by her given name.

My brother, whose name actually was John, became affectionately known not as Johnny, but as Mac, after my mother’s family, the McCormicks – or so I thought. The family speculated that perhaps Granddad was just trying to avoid the confusion of having another Johnny about. At any rate, the misnomer stuck, and my brother did not regain his given name until he graduated from college and entered the army. The army never addresses anyone with affection.

My own designation turned out to be the most peculiar of all. The name my grandfather chose for me was McGee. I remember asking him about it once. A man of few words, he merely gave me a ragged smile and said, Want a cookie, McGee?

Time and distance have inevitably made all