Gratefully Remembered

Nov11

When I realized that Arnie was dead, the thought of existing in this world without my husband of 37 years made me feel icy-cold and paradoxically, at the same time, hot and sweaty. We were 18 when we met and had quickly decided to get married. The man had become one-half of me, I was no longer whole!

The truth of my new reality washed over me in waves as I was guided through the process of planning Arnie’s funeral. He was gone from this side of life, but nothing, not even his death could take away the good we had had. I clung to my memories like a drowning person would cling to a raft.

Memories of our loved ones are like touch stones: they reflect the essence of that person’s essential qualities. Memories are also like the portkeys in the Harry Potter stories. Once touched with your mind, they transport you back to a time when we were together.

It makes me laugh to remember the time Arnie and I walked down the sidewalk by church talking about how young and foolish we had been when we were first married. He concluded, “You know, we did a good job of raising each other.” I miss his sense of humor and use the peaceful coexistence we had as a benchmark of any relationship.

My father, Jacob, died when I was still unfamiliar with death as a concept. I hadn’t had a close family member pass away during my span of memories. He had told me he was tired, didn’t feel good anymore, and was ready to go. At 31 years-of-age, I didn’t understand. One of Daddy’s touch stones was good humor. He liked to tell funny stories about his life, like the one about getting a Model T, and sending a quarter in the mail to get a driver’s license. He had very little knowledge of driving rules. When he had business to do in Marshfield, he was afraid to drive his Model T in the city where there would be many other cars. He laughed, admitting he parked on the outskirts of Marshfield and walked into the big, scary city.

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This entry was posted on November 11, 2026, in Husband, Kathy.

I Smell Money!

Nov4

Most of the trees had already shed their colorful leaves, but the fields along the road were still bright green. Blinding sunshine and the warm temperature of that afternoon gave the impression that our lovely fall weather would last forever. As we drove past a well-cared-for farmyard, we were hit with the distinct, strong smell of cow manure. Out of habit, I cheerfully announced, “I smell money!”

My daughter Tammie, who was driving the car, laughed.

I chuckled, remembering how often I said that phrase when I took my daughters to visit their Grammie. She lived on the farm I’d grown up on. The first time I said it my grade school-aged girls asked, “Why are you saying that? The smell is disgusting!”

Glancing into the backseat where they sat, I explained cheerfully, “The reason I said that is because, if you don’t smell cow poop in a dairy farmer’s yard, he doesn’t have an income. There’s no way to milk cows or raise beef cattle without having manure to deal with. Where there is no poop, there won’t be a paycheck either.”

Having spent many hours in the barn with my family while I was growing up, the smell of manure was familiar to me and not offensive. The only time the smell was not ok was when dirty barn boots tracked filth into a house, school, or church. My mother always made sure that our farmhouse never smelled like barn. We changed clothing and washed when coming into the house or going somewhere.

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Dumb Like A Fox

Oct28

As soon as all the cows had stepped into their proper stalls, I pulled the lever on the south side of the barn to close that row of neck bars. This loose restraint would keep them from wandering around the barn during milking chores. Daddy pulled the lever to close the neck bars on the north side stanchions. I hoped all 36 cows were held in place. Sometimes one would try to trick us by stepping into her stall but pushing her head alongside the device that could keep her there.

The cows were stubborn about coming into the barn tonight. Two of them took turns trying to squeeze past barricades to enter the area in front of the stanchions. That was no big surprise because the loaded feed cart was parked there. They just wanted an extra mouthful of delicious ground oats. Daddy yelled and slapped the cows’ haunches and hollered that their behavior was bad enough to make a saint swear. His anger seemed to make the greedy cows act stupider.

Calm returned to the barn after Daddy took the feed cart around and portioned out the feed that each cow was to get. The cows lapped up the grain and chomped loudly as they ate hay. One cow that I was standing near shook her head until her ears flopped comically. She laid down, exhaling loudly. The chains holding the neck bars in place clinked as she moved. I loved these big, dumb cows with their flat faces and dark, iridescent eyes. I didn’t even mind the smell of them.

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You…Pig Snort!

Oct21

Supper would be later than usual for my family on that hectic fall afternoon. Unexpected afterwork delays and equipment breakdowns had strained my nerves and made my children irritable with hunger. Deciding to make a quick and easy supper of sloppy joes on sliced bread, I put a pound of hamburger into the fry pan on the stove. The phone rang and I answered it. While talking to my husband on the phone about our respective negative experiences we’d had that day, the frying hamburger started to burn. I howled with frustration. A greasy smoke haze filled the kitchen air.

From the living room next to the kitchen, I could hear my five- and nine-year-old children playing. Short-tempered because of their hunger, and perhaps as a reflection of their mother’s palpable aggravation, they seemed to be quarreling more than playing. Finally, the fight escalated to the point of total outrage and the angry child stuttered as she shouted the ultimate insult, “You, you, you PIG SNORT!” The insulted child stomped out of the room.

The absurd insult made me chuckle. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with being a pig snort, but being called one in that tone of voice left no doubt about your lowliness and despicable existence. Laughing seemed to reset my temper for the evening. Frustrations weren’t the end of the world. I clearly recognized that my children’s irritableness was a reflection off me. I reminded myself, “The saying is true…’If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy!’”

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I Have…VoIP!

Oct14
It sounded like an illness!

My sixteen-year-old brother took me for a walk when a man came to our farmhouse to install our family’s first telephone. I didn’t know what a phone was but knew how to get in the way and annoy people with floods of questions. That fall, I entered first grade.

I quickly learned that our phone was connected to something called a ‘party line’. That meant there were several families in our neighborhood who shared the use of one line.  

When someone on our ‘party line’ received a call, all the phones on the ‘party line’ rang. Each household knew who the call was for, because each household was assigned a different series of long and short rings. We were not supposed to pick up our phone receiver unless the phone rang our assigned rings. Some people liked to pick up to see who was calling the neighbor. They usually stayed silent, but sometimes there were background sounds. Mom called the people who listened in on other people’s calls, “Rubberneckers”.

If a phone conversation lasted a long time, no one else on the party line was able to use the phone until that call ended. When there was an emergency, like a farmer needing to call the veterinarian for a calving cow or his barn was on fire, the farmer would break into the conversation by saying, “Please get off the phone. I have an emergency!” 

Telephones evolved quickly. By the time I graduated from high school, all telephone lines were private. The new phones at that time came in many colors other than black. Instead of cranking the phone, we just used one finger to spin a dial to enter seven digits. Our calls were clear as a bell. Everyone had landline phones back then, so there were phone books in every home. These books gave the name, address and telephone number of everyone living in your community and were so handy!

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Perfectly Fine

Oct7

I slid out from behind the steering wheel and slammed the car door shut. The fall afternoon sunshine was so beautiful, I should have been out enjoying a walk on my country road. But a day off from my job at the hospital was often spent running errands. Once I completed my job list, I swung by the hospital to attend a meeting at the 7 North Unit where I worked. While on duty when unit meetings are being held, I was often too busy to attend.

I walked into the lounge where the meeting was being held, followed by two nurses who also had the day off. Our Unit Manager nurse slowly worked her way through the meeting agenda; a new doctor’s standing orders, changes in how to send certain lab samples, patient safety issues, and an update on computer-based training requirements. Her last topic: the results of recent patient-care surveys. Our patients were saying the care they received from us was good. According to administration, that meant we were falling down on the job! Afterall, why weren’t our patients saying we gave ‘very good’, or ‘excellent’ care on the hospital survey?

As an employee at the hospital, I was always aware that if a patient had a nurse or nursing assistant who was rude or gave poor care, that patient would see the entire hospital as being a bad place. Each employee represents the place where they work. A bad employee is like a weak link: a breaking point. The patients surveyed regarding their stay at my hospital didn’t say they thought our care was subpar. But according to the survey managers, our patients damned us with faint praise. Administration reacted to the survey report as if they had been given a mouthful of unsweetened, lukewarm oatmeal. 

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The ill Begotten Tree (Part Two)

Sep30

Half of the deck behind my house was covered in cool shade. A pleasant breeze passed by, temporarily teasing away the summer heat for the moment. Some friends dropped by for a visit. One visitor said, “It feels nice out here.” Everyone agreed, so we all sat down around the deck table. While admiring the yard, another commented, “I see that you have an apple tree in the flowerbed along the driveway.”

I glanced over at the tree and chuckled, “That poor tree has a funny story about how I got it and it has a sad story about what its life has been like in my yard.”

My friends were curious and wanted to know more. So, I told them the funny story first, about how one year I won a gift certificate to a local plant nursery in a “Largest Weed Contest” at the Central Wisconsin Fair. When I was declared the winner, one of the other contestants said I had cheated. My 25-foot wild grapevine aced his gigantic burdock bush. The judge of the contest promised Big Burdock Man that next year the contest rules would outlaw vines. I accepted the certificate as the winner, said “Thank-you” and escaped my fellow contestant’s burning disapproval by quickly disappearing into the surrounding crowd.

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The ill Begotten Tree

Sep23

Humidity made the air look hazy and my lungs feel airless. Early afternoon sunshine burned into my skin like a laser beam. Sweat poured out of my pores so fast, I felt the sensation of salty sweat tickling my skin as it gushed out. Glancing around my garden, I tried to remember all the garden products I had signed up to show at the Central Wisconsin Fair in Marshfield, Wisconsin.

Green beans were on my list. My goal was to find ten beans that were straight and identical in size. I stopped to think, “Did the entry form say ten, or twelve?” I was certain that I only needed one eggplant and for the tomatoes: three green ones, three ripe ones, and three heirlooms. Thankfully, I’d dug the potatoes for my entry, and harvested the onions yesterday. Finding identical sets of everything isn’t an easy job. Sometimes it is even impossible. Under my breath I mumbled, “I hate fair entry day!”

Eventually, I moved on to working my way around the yard to cut the flowers I planned to enter. The easiest to gather were three hydrangea blossoms, so I started there. When I eventually returned to my house, I placed my armful of cut flowers into the many vases required and began to gather up certain potted house plants. My variegated-leaf hoya plant was in bloom. That was something not every plant lover gets to see very often.

Jars of canned goods and crafts I’d worked on through the year covered the dining table. I had gathered them and fastened entry tags to each one last night. With everything assembled, it was now time to pack everything into my car.

By the time I arrived at the fairgrounds, I was a frazzled, sweaty mess, and I still had to unload the car and deliver the right entries to right department for them to be displayed. As I went to work, it occurred to me that every year, fair entry day was always hot and humid. And every year I hated the miserable day and the rush to bring everything, conforming to all the rules. The irony was that by the last day of the fair, the nights were often very cool.

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A Grace Seldom Mentioned

Sep16

I stood looking out of the window over my daughter’s kitchen sink. Watery, late April morning sunshine gave such pale light that it not only gave little warmth but seemed to leach the color from the backyard pine trees and the mud-rutted driveway. Three cars were parked near the house. One belonged to me, and the other two belonged to friends of my daughter. They were busy cleaning the house and doing her laundry so she could take care of her newborn baby. Three of my grandchildren sat at the kitchen table playing cards. Three others sat in the living room and the two-year-old stood next to her mother watching her nurse the baby.

Only just last week, the spring air felt more friendly. Warm, happy afternoon sunshine flooded into my dining room as my daughter gathered her children in preparation for leaving. At the door she stopped and said, “Is it okay if we drop off the kids on our way to the hospital to have the baby? They want to come with us because they said it was tradition.” I laughingly gave my consent. After all, it was my tradition, too!

The following week, our whole world turned upside down. My daughter’s husband died in a freak accident and their baby was born. Suddenly, people we usually only saw at church, weddings, and at birthday parties brought casseroles, salads, and desserts. They were coming to clean her house, help with the many other chores a mother has in raising a big family, and to keep her company.

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Waking up with a Kick

Sep9

After my tonsillectomy surgery was over, but before I was fully awake, two nurses put me on a cart and returned me to my room in the pediatric unit. I drowsily noticed that Mom and Daddy and my brother Billy were in the room waiting for me. Mom brushed the bangs off my forehead. Daddy stood quietly watching me with love in his eyes. At the foot of the bed, Billy discovered that the blanket covering me covered everything but one foot. Doing what was instinctive as a brother, he reached down and tickled my foot. My instinctive reaction was to pull back my knee like a piston and transfered all my energy into a well-placed kick.

More than a year earlier, I came down with a sore throat. This sore throat was different than any other sore throat I’d ever had. Besides being very painful, it seemed as though I couldn’t swallow anything. When Mom told me to open my mouth so she could take a look, she gasped, “Your tonsils are so swollen, they are nearly touching! I’m going to take you to see Doctor Kroeplin in Stratford.”

Mom’s reaction scared me; I cried. Then I got the mirror from the bathroom to look at my own throat. I saw two huge, red, shiny lumps of inflamed flesh covered with white streaks. They didn’t look like they belonged where they were. When Doctor Kroeplin looked in my throat, he said, “Kathy has strep throat. If it isn’t treated with penicillin, she could get rheumatic fever.” The large, bitter pills he prescribed needed to be taken daily.

I gagged easily and found swallowing pills impossible to do. To complicate things, penicillin pills taste terrible. Mom was desperate to get them into me because of what the doctor said. She tried to hide them in spoonfuls of apple sauce. The apple sauce went down, but I gagged out the bitter pill. Orange juice was a rare treat in our house, so she got some, thinking it would help me swallow the pills. I spit up the juice along with the pill onto the kitchen linoleum. I ended up having to go back to see the doctor to be given a penicillin shot in my rump. As much as I didn’t like that, it was better than swallowing pills.

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