A WINTER IN COLORADO
In the spring of nineteen thirty four we lived south of Tasco, near where I was born. This was at the beginning of the severe drought of the thirties. Brother Wallace or, Bud, as he was known in those days was still at home but he "worked out" as the expression was. In other words he lived at home but he worked elsewhere. Harry Minium and Fred Setchell were running a cow herd and they leased the grass on the old Currier ranch which joined us. Wallace took the job of looking after the cattle. As the dry weather continued, grass became short and they leased the Turkey Track ranch in eastern Colorado. Ranches were often known by the owners brand and this was no exception. The brand had long ago disappeared but the name remained. This ranch was located twenty miles east of Fountain, Colorado. It was truly sparse grass country. The dominant grass was a species of gramma that grew in clumps with bare ground between. Sage was also abundant. It was also sandy in most areas with adobe flats in between. Rainfall was scant and winter blizzards were rare and perhaps nonexistent. It might snow a few inches but the snow would be gone in a day or two. I suspect that the mountains which towered in a north south range just west of Fountain had an effect on the weather. It was mild and the air was clear; clear almost beyond belief. The first time I saw it I was awed by the towering line of mountains to the west. They were beautiful in the early morning with the sun shining on them. One had the feeling that they could be touched with an outstretched arm. In the evening they appeared as a dark cloud that was ever present. Life there in those days was slow paced even if some days the hours were long. It was a life in the saddle, forever checking cattle and perhaps doctoring a sick one or repairing fence. They ran nine hundred mother cows. I do not know the acreage but it was a lot of ground to cover on a horse. No pickups and stock trailers in those days. Wallace moved to Colorado with the cattle in late summer. He lived at the ranch house where the corral and outbuildings were located. Wages were low but he liked the work. He broke several saddle horses while he was there. Once he was thrown and landed on his head. This appeared to be the cause of a severe back and kidney problem that plagued him the rest of his short life. A bachelors life was lonesome so he proposed that my older sister, Rosa, become his housekeeper and attend the Squirrel Creek high school nearby. This seemed to be a good idea and after a family conference she left home and finished high school in Colorado. Money was scarce and there was one less mouth to fed at home and of course this also put an end to the expense of high school. I believe that those three years were the happiest times in their lives. Both later married and raised a family but their marriages were beset with difficulties, however they both remained true to their marriage vows and preceded their spouses in death. Wallace was living with the kidney problem and it was finally decided that he should spend some time in Denver under the care of a specialist. This was the fall of nineteen thirty seven. Dad had died in the late winter of that year and money was so scarce that I did not return to school that fall. I took his (Wallace's) place at the ranch while he spent several weeks in Denver. I, an eighteen year old kid looking after seventeen hundred plus cows?? Well, ranching in that area was more a job of tending cattle. The cows ate sage brush and some carry over grass that had not been grazed in the summer. Rarely did the snow cover the ground. Cattle were given cotton cake every other day. That took considerable time but it was a rather slow paced life. It was a great experience. I treasure its memories.
Wallace decided to change jobs the following spring. We went to Alma, Colorado where we heard that the gold mines were hiring but after a couple of weeks we gave up. Wallace took a job on another ranch close to Fountain and I returned to Kansas where I worked at various jobs for a while. At this point things become a bit hazy. I believe it was in early summer that I paired up with Clifford Quakenbush, my mother's half brother, and Tom Thompson, Clifford's cousin. We went to Jefferson, Colo, and tried to get a job in the hay fields but we were late and they had their crews hired. Jobs were scarce in those days. We returned to Denver where my sister, Winnie, lived. Clifford had a brother, Floyd who lived in Denver too. We worked odd jobs, hauled bundles to a threshing machine and earned our way. I came back to Kansas and immediately went to Tryon, Neb. where I worked in the hay until school started in the fall. My mother's insistence paid off. I finished high school. It later proved to be a good thing.

                                                          RIVER OF NOSTALGIA

Somewhere south and west of Colby, Kansas there is probably a high point. Perhaps it may be several square miles in area and it is unlikely to be laid out in any well defined lines. Elevations are not easy to see, even to the practiced eye. Never the less there is such a place in northwest Kansas. From this area the land slopes downward in almost every direction. It would be necessary to use instruments in order to find the exact highest point and this has been done. Water runoff during storms of course follows the downward slope of the land. So from this point the waters separate and as they flow and gather more water, eventually this runoff is divided and marks the beginning of many water courses that lead to rivers and as the rivers converge the streams eventually empty into the sea. All rivers in this area empty into the Gulf of Mexico eventually. Several streams of water in western Kansas have their beginning at this high point. There was a time when flowing streams rose from the ground and flowed in various directions from this high point. They might be only a damp spot on the surface during cool wet seasons and in the dry season they would be completely dry. As the watercourse reached a lower elevation the water would become more abundant. When the white man first came to this area several streams flowed out of Thomas County. The river of the Smoky Hills (commonly called the Smoky) rose in this area and meandered in a southerly direction for several miles and eventually turned to the east. My father, Frank Morgan and my father-in-law, Hugh Wigginton have told me about the times they drove cattle to the Smoky for the summer grazing season. Not many miles from where the Smoky rose was the head water of the Beaver. It , s flowed in a northeasterly direction and even went into the Republican, which raises out in Colorado and barely touches the very northwest tip of Kansas, but after flowing east eventually enters Kansas flowing almost due south. There is also the Sappa arching north but mostly east. Also the Praire Dog heads in the same area as well as the North and South Solomon and the Saline and Bowcreek. All these streams flow in the general direction of east with the Republican on the north and the Smoky on the south as their boundaries.. It is interesting to note that all these streams come close together in central Kansas. In fact, they do come together one by one and the Kansas (Kaw) river takes all their excess water and carries it into the Missouri on the Mississippi and ends up in the Gulf of Mexico. Most of these streams have north and south forks and the Sappa has three which are appropriately North, Middle and South fork. It is interesting to note that William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill) mentions camping along these various streams when he served as a scout with the U.S. Army. When one who is familiar with this country reads his accounts of making camp along a stream it becomes apparent that there was living water in areas that have been dry for years. I suspect that this drying process has been going on for a long time. A neighbor of mine has an irrigation well that was dug by hand. It is several feet in diameter. He once told me that he has placed floating sticks at the west wall and they will always float to the east side. This lends credence to the idea that our ground water is very slowly moving from west to east. This could mean that the place of the rising of our flowing streams is gradually moving east. Certainly, I know for a fact that this very thing has happened in my lifetime. Let us then go back in time, back to the time when the river, my river, my river of nostalgia, was indeed a flowing stream.
How many hours did I as a boy with a horse and dog, spend in the shade of trees along its banks? How many times did I drive our livestock to its banks when our own windmill did not supply enough water? There is a branch called Sand Creek that empties into this river. The place where they come together marks the spot where I was born. This very spot is associated with my earliest memory. I remember sitting on the east bank of Sand Creek where it joins the south fork of the Solomon. Here I sat while my father stripped off his clothes and washed himself in that clear water. Many a time I have satisfied my thirst by drinking from this stream. Could I count the times that I have crossed that stream or slid on the ice in the pools that iced over in the winter? There was an old swimming hole along its banks and all we local boys knew it well even though the tenant of the land would sometimes chase us out. So many memories - so many years the river was there. Sometimes a mere trickle but it was alive and well. When the floods came it was awesome in its power. A few days later all would be peaceful again. A boy could lay in the soft sand with the dog nearby and the saddle horse cropping grass nearby. What a time for dreams. Who can deny the boy his dreams? Then suddenly one awful night it come to an end. The days for dreaming were over. Does manhood come at a certain age? Does a boy just slowly grow into manhood? Perhaps. But it need not be so. Sometimes it is like the opening of a gate. One passes through it and the boy is suddenly a man. The carefree days of youth are gone. The past is gone forever but the memory does not die. Mom became a widow and we moved away. It is seldom easy to break the ties that ^^. bind. Even the hardships and the pain seem to be less severe. The poets of old understood this. Consider the words written by Lord Byron in "The Prisoner of Chillon" These prison walls to me had grown An hermitage, and all my own And half I felt that they had come To tear me from a second home. And so it was! I remember coming back later. As we came over a rise and the valley that I knew so well, with its flowing stream came into view I seemed to enter a deep void. At that time the roots from whence I came were wrenched with an awful finality from the soil where they had grown. At that moment I knew that they would never again take root on this earth. I knew the awful feeling of nostalgia. And it has been so. I was to drift over half the world during the coming years. I saw those far off places and people with strange ways. The highways and the byways of the world beckoned and I eagerly trod upon them, but the place to rest was as elusive as the end of the rainbow. Strange indeed are the ways of fate. That seemingly endless road came full circle and here I was once more on the banks of my beloved river. Did the roots that were once pulled so violently from the soil go down again? I think not. Instead they appeared to merely find a resting place. Content they were to abide here by my river. A great truth slowly became apparent. We shared a bond. I knew the power of this bond in the service of my country. There is a special feeling among men who offer their lives for a common cause. The time was to come when I was to understand that this river was a dear friend. May we go back in time again. You see my paternal grandparents came and settled along this river. My father was born beside it and so was I. My grandfather and grandmother first met along its banks. They made their living and raised their children beside it.
My father held the family's cattle on the rich grass along its bottoms. He weathered the storms on night herd and saw the lightening play on the tips of their horns. He was one of the last of the line who rode for the big ranches that once dominated this area. The woman who was to share forty five years of my life grew to womanhood in like manner. There was however one thing between us that neither of us could ever understand. She too was born along this river as was her mother before her. Her life continued along its bank. Her roots along it were never severed. She was born, lived and died here. Truly she saw it dry and in flood and all stages between. It was truly her home in every way. When I first came back to this river I could look out and see a flowing stream. It was truly alive but the ravages of time slowly drew from it the lifegiving water. All that remains is a dry watercourse marked by dead or dying trees. Most of the people see just a low spot between two ridges when they even pause to notice it. It is only a part of the land and nothing more. It is to them of no value unless it produces a crop. My father-in-law remembered when they brought the herd home for wintering along the stream. There was the tall grass that was left for winter grazing. Much of it would reach the stirrup of a mounted man. There were also the stacks of hay cut from the same lush bottom. You understand that this was so because that grass sent its roots down and shared the water with the flowing stream. I used to sit with him, and shared many a happy evening. He loved to share the past, and how it once was but is no more and I was a rapt listener. Lonesome, he was as he lived alone. I know now that we forged a special bond. A bond not unlike the one we shared with the living river. Time moves on and change is indeed a part of life. Would we want it any other way? I doubt it. There is a story in the ancient writings of a man who once entered paradise, that place of eternal bliss, the fruit he said "tasted rotten." Such is life. My father-in-law, my mentor if you please; has passed on, my river is no more. My wife is gone too and I am alone with my memories. How can I make anyone understand? Am I sad? No! Am I content? No! Do I regret the passage of time? I think not. There was a specific time that I remember and this is how it happened. As I came home in the evening I first came in sight of the river and it came upon me with a blow. There was no water. My river was dead. No more was she a living stream. Something had passed from my life forever. Perhaps there is a fitting sequel to all this. My wife and I awoke one morning and we were surrounded by water. My river had become a raging flood. We held hands and walked waist deep through the flood to higher ground. Looking back: my wife is gone, the river is dry again. I wonder if my river was telling me. See! I am not dead, I am like the enduring hill through which I flowed. Your memories are yours to keep, only do not mourn my passing. It is enough that we shared a time together.

                                                            HAILSTORM
It was just getting light as I put on my shirt and overalls and headed for the barn. There was no need to remove night clothes. I slept in the suit that I was wearing when I was born. It was summertime. Of course in the winter we had long underwear and it was put on after a bath and stayed in place night and day until the next bath. A shirt and overalls was plenty of clothing even in the cool of the morning. I saddled Sailor and we headed for the pasture to get the work horses. We brought them in, tied each in its stall and fed them grain. After they were harnessed I went to the house for breakfast. It was early June and the days were getting hot. The corn had been planted in early May and it was up and growing but the weeds were growing too. I would be working two miles from the house so the noon time would be spent at the field. After breakfast I filled the water barrel in the wagon and loaded the hay and grain for the noon feed. The horses were hitched to the wagon four abreast and we left the farmstead and headed south for the field. When we arrived at the field the team was unhitched from the wagon and a few minutes later they were hitched to the weeder still four abreast. In those days corn was planted with a lister. This machine made a furrow and the corn was planted in the center of that furrow. The dirt from the furrow made a ridge between the rows of corn. The first weeds usually came along the side of the ridge and my job today was to kill them. We used a machine called a weeder (I have later heard it called a go-dig). It had discs which could be set to work the side of the ridge and throw the dirt away from the small corn plants. It also had shovels that could be set to get weeds missed by the ^_^ discs. Most corn rows were spaced forty-two inches apart. This allowed room for the horses to walk the ridges as they pulled the weeder through the field. All seemed to be going well that morning. I might get fifteen acres that day. Maybe if all went real good I might get en an extra round. It would be nice to be able to tell Dad how much was done. He was working away from home. When the sun was straight overhead I unhitched and fed and watered the horses. They ate out of the wagon bed and I sat underneath in the shade and ate my lunch and drank water from a gallon crock jug with a burlap sack sewed around it. The sack was soaked when the jug was filled. This helped to keep the water cool. We would spend one or two hours resting at noon and then go back to work. It was not long after noon when the clouds began to gather. It was nothing to worry about. Clouds often gathered like that on a hot afternoon. We kept at our work. The clouds were getting black and seemed to be tumbling about in a mass with here and there light streaks coming down. They didn't look very good but we lived with summer storms. They were to be respected of course. I fully understood the awful fury of the wind, lightening and hail together with the torrents of rain. I remember the times Dad told about his days night herding. That was before the barbed wire became so common. They bedded the cattle and circled the herd on horseback the whole night through. If it was dark with no moon and the night was quiet it was a lonely and long night and they sang. This was to help pass the time and it seemed to have a quieting effect on the cattle. Sometimes a storm came up. If it was a bad thunderstorm the cattle would be on their feet, a fretful, milling mass. Perhaps there would be torrents of rain, a flashing lightening and all the riders could do was try to keep the cattle bunched if they moved to turn them in a big milling circle.
Sometimes the electric storm would be so bad that there would be an eerie phosphorescent glow that seemed to play about the horns of the cattle. I had sat around the table and heard Dad tell these stories. My dad was not inclined to stretch the truth and I knew that what he spoke was true. These were my thoughts as I watched those storm clouds gather. When I came back to the end near the wagon I watched a while and decided to unhitch. No one likes to get caught at the far end of the field in a rain storm. It meant a good soaking at best. And my, how cold that rain is on a hot summer day. My action followed my decision and it was not a bit to soon. I unhitched and tied the horses to the wagon with their rumps into the wind, heads down as if to make as small a target as possible. The wind came and with it the rain. I crawled under the wagon. Then it began to hail. Waiting out a storm under a wagon with four head of horses is not a pleasant time but we were reared in a hard school and we merely faced the fury of the storms as best we could. I remember no sense of fear. It was more a sense of defiance; an inner feeling that to face a storm like this was a challenge and I wanted to rise up and meet it. Of course I would seek what shelter that could be found but I would not quail in terror as I faced that storm. Soon it was over and the clouds went away. I hitched the team to the wagon and started home. An eight year old boy driving home after the storm. It was beautiful. The sun was shining. The air was clear and it was good to be alive.

                                                         PRINCE

I remember, he wasn't much to look at. He certainly didn't come from a long line of blooded stock, nor would he nave been claimed by any breed. What was the color of his hair? Probably he would have been considered bay. Now how much does that tell you? Oh, you don't know what that means? Well, young fellow, I guess we grew up in a different world and that bothers me. Sometimes I get in my car and turn the switch on. Next I make a frantic grab for the kill switch on the radio then comes silence. What a blissful silence compared to the crashing sound of a few seconds ago. Yes, we are a couple of generations apart. I hope we can bridge the chasm that has separated us. You grew from childhood riding about on wheels and I went about riding on something that had feelings and feet just like you and I. This is important. After a long day in the saddle or a day in the field what man would seek his own food and rest before he took care of his stock. The good stockmen would consider the welfare of livestock ahead of his own. Here is a great truth. "It is more blessed to give than to receive." I have been rambling a bit here; but my point is simply this; interaction with animals can be a building block for character. There are exceptions of course. Cruel people will likely be cruel to animals. Now where were we. Oh, yes you see Prince was a horse. In fact he was the horse that helped me learn to ride. He was bay in color. That is a shade somewhere between red and brown. I remember when he died. It did not happen suddenly. I would sit there and watch him, not really understanding what was happening. Finally he moved no more. How does a mere child cope with a thing like death? I cried by myself. I wanted to be alone. It is things like this that have a part in shaping character. A farm boy sees the harsh reality of birth, life and death at an early age. The death of a horse will be forever etched in my visual memory. The picture of perhaps seventy years ago is still clear. It makes me wish that I had been more gentle. What mechanical thing can ever bring about the nostalgia brought on by the memory of a certain animal. If you keep an animal merely to do your bidding you will never understand what I am trying to tell you. There must be a mutual bond.

                                                        LOOKING BACK
In the early 1950's many Americans were obsessed with a fear that the United States might become the target of an atom bomb. As a U.S. Navy man I knew the power of bombs and an atom was much, much more powerful. We really didn't think much about where we might go or if we might end up as a battle casualty on some beach diat we had never heard of. I do not apologize for the fact that I was elated that the bomb did end the war. I know no veteran who did not feel the same. After all we were trained for battle. We were disciplined as service men but dead men don't carry the torch. Rare indeed is the well trained Soldier, Sailor or Marine who would hesitate to go into battle when ordered to do so. Of course there is fear. I suppose there are those with iron nerves who appear unshaken in the threat of danger, but I suspect that most of us would prefer to stay alive. I also believe that most of us would go to the aid of a fallen comrade even if such action required that we put our own life on the line. Somehow we rise to the occasion. There are exceptional men who go far beyond the call of duty. Probably most of us will never be called to meet that supreme test. What makes us capable of meeting one challenge head on and perhaps cower in fear when we are faced with another? I do not know. I remember those war years well. It has been more than fifty years but the memory is vivid. Probably no one can describe it and it is possible that each felt different. I simply felt a heavy burden. First, I must tell you, there was no fear of the future. Perhaps that may seem strange. I think that one just setded into the day to day routine and refused to think about the future. I served in the Navy more than a year before Dec. 7, 1941. I was a seagoing sailor and would go where I was ordered to go. We had little choice, at least I was not aware of any. Of course one could ask for a transfer and it might be granted. I did this and after serving more than three years abroad the U.S.S. Trenton in the South Pacific I was transferred with thirty days delayed orders to report into the Naval Station at Quanset Point, Rhode Island. At that place I joined the ship's company of the U.S.S. Dutchess A.P.A. 98. This was my first leave in almost four years. The Dutchess was being built in the Baltimore Navy Yard. She was to be a ship that carried men who would go ashore on whatever island we were trying to take over. She was officially called and Amphibious Personal Attack ship. That simply meant that we would bring men in close to the beach and they would go ashore to do what was required. The year was 1945. I went aboard her at die Baltimore Navy Yard. As a Machinist's Mate First Class I was assigned duty in charge of the evaporators. The evaps in engineers jargon. You might ask what are they for. Simply put they were machines that boiled sea water in a vacuum and condensed the resulting steam. This process produced fresh water for the crew's use and also supplied water that the ship used to produce steam. That steam under pressure of two hundred fifty pounds or more was the driving force that turned the engines and most of the machinery. While serving aboard her I saw Pearl Harbor again. While on the Trenton I went ashore several times in Honolulu. We did not see the wreckage on Battleship Row because we anchored far out near Ford Island and we did not go ashore. We arrived at Okinawa while die battle was on. Kamikaze planes flew overhead but their targets were the bigger ships. These were bomb loaded suicide planes. The
pilot simply tried to fly his plane into a ship. Of course the pilot gave his life to the Emperor. What fanatical zeal!! A hazy period follows. We did drop anchor in the harbor at Nagoya, Japan. We just missed that killer typhoon that destroyed many of our sister ships. I honestly do not remember where we went from there. We were anchored in San Francisco Bay on that celebrated VJ Day (Victory Japan). We also hauled soldiers from the jungles of the Philippines back to the States. We went back through the canal in the spring of '46. The Dutchess was decommissioned on the east coast. I was granted another thirty days delayed orders to report into the Naval Station near Olathe, Kansas. In June I was assigned to the U.S.SJ.W. Wilke a destroyer escort vessel stationed at Key West, Florida. My six year cruise ended Oct. 1,1946 and I was paid off at the Naval Air Station at Jacksonville, Florida. On a Sunday, while there, we saw the "Blue Angels" perform. The were a group of elite fliers who did precision flying. Sometimes they were called C.A.P.'s that stood for Chief Aviation Pilot. That means they were enlisted men (not officers) with a Chief Petty Officer rate. It was a sad day. One pilot ended his career. He went into a power dive and didn't pull out of it. A nagging question has bothered me for these fifty years. I served all the time the war was fought and was never battle tested. Why? There are times of reflection when that feeling borders on guilt. Why? Why didn't I try harder to get into the heat of battle. Merciful God! I don't know why.

A LETTER TO MY DEAR NIECE
^ • _ _ _ I believe that I am fully justified in addressing you in this manner. As you well know, my deceased wife was your biological aunt and she and I were joined together in the Holy bonds of matrimony, according to the laws of God until death did us part. (Believe me I miss her). So I call it a privilege that we are thus united as a family. It may surprise you to learn that I remember your great grandfather, Jacob Oake) Mosier quite well. And why should I not? I was born and grew to manhood about two miles downstream from where he lived. He kept several brood mares and raised some beautiful horses. He also kept a Jack and was a respected breeder of mules. He was not alone. In fact his close neighbor, Max Schropp kept a black percheron stallion and raised, I thought, some beautiful draft horses. The services of his stallion were in demand throughout the community. I remember neighbors passing our place leading a mare to the Schropp farm. They expected that mare to produce a colt which they might eventually use as a draft animal. We just called them horses. Smaller and finer boned horses were bred for saddle stock or perhaps to pull a one horse buggy or spring wagon which required a two horse team. Such horses and vehicles were very common in my earliest memories. I still carry a very vivid picture in my mind. It is of your great grandfather driving a team hitched to a wagon. He passed our place on his way to Tasco. Perched beside him on the seat was your mother. She was probably not old enough to go to school. What causes these brief glimpses of the past to be fixed in the mind? The Mosier farm was considered to be a prosperous one in the community. The afore mentioned Max Schropp, on occasions exchanged work with my dad. At least one year we harvested barley with a header and I was considered big enough to drive the team that pulled the header box. Now what in God's creation was a header box you may ask? Picture a hay rack eight by sixteen feet in dimensions. These, you will remember, were what we hauled hay with when you were a child. A header box used the same running gears and floor but it was boxed on both sides and ends. The left side was about six feet high above the floor and the right was only about three feet high. The ends were sloped so the top rails ran from the top of the high side to the top of the low side. A machine called a header was driven or more properly pushed through the field of standing grain. A sickle at the very front of a twelve foot wide platform cut the heads from the stalk. A reel revolving above the sickle brushed the material onto an endless canvas which in turn moved it to an elevator that delivered it into the low side of the header box. All these moving parts were driven by the turning action of a bull wheel on the machine. A full header crew would consist of six horses pushing the header, two header boxes with a team pulling each one. Each box had a man driving the team and a man with a pitchfork to load the box. A man with a pitchfork stayed on the stack. Good stackers who could build a stack that would shed water were in demand. Sometimes there would be a spike pitcher who stayed at the stack to help unload the box and pitch the wheat or barley heads onto the stack. If there was no spike pitcher then the header box driver and the loader would unload the box while the other box was being loaded. Thus a full crew would include a minimum of ten horses and six or possibly seven men. Is the picture clear? May I say from experience, it was work and the days were long. No missing breakfast here and the water jug was always handy. Work started before breakfast. The horses were brought to the barn and fed grain and they were usually harnessed by daylight. Breakfast followed and soon after the teams were hitched to the machines and the days work was under way. Noon was at least an
hour and half or perhaps a two hour break. Horses were unhitched, fed and watered and the men ate and rested. In any good outfit the horses were cared for first. A man was known by the way he treated his stock. Good men took a lot of pride in their animals. Harvest, as it was called, might last two weeks. If you lived and worked in those times you can better understand the past harvest picnics and celebrations that followed the close of the season. We looked forward to the fun and relaxation. Some men made a living just following the harvest from south to north. They returned year after year to the same farms. The last time that I worked in a header box was nineteen thirty six. I was seventeen and considered myself capable of doing a man's work. Dad consented and I hired out to Uncle Walt Morgan. We used a tractor to pull the header box and the tractor pulled the header also by means of a cable. We had a three man crew. Uncle Walt rode and operated the header, Cousin Ervin drove the tractor and I loaded the box. It was a slow, steady job. Loading the box was more difficult because the material came only in one place and I had to move it to the front and rear. When the box was pulled by a separate team the driver could help by changing the place of delivery. It was a very steady job. I could rest while the barge was pulled to the stack yard and again while we returned to the header. Harvest lasted a part of three weeks and I was paid the handsome sum of two dollars per day. As soon as harvest was over we started threshing. Henry Ochs had a machine. A chain type feed was placed between two stacks. It fed the material into the threshing machine. Four men pitched to the machine. I thought harvest was work but this was more so. I would hope that the machine might need to stop for oh! just a few minutes. Later that same season I hauled bundles to Willis Toothaker's machine. By the time school started that fall I was well seasoned but I had enough money to buy my books and clothes. It was a good feeling. It would be truthful to say, the work was hard but remember, we were accustomed to it The following summer I worked for Harry Minium near Morland. We used a Baldwin combine and I drove the tractor that pulled it. This was child's play compared to harvesting the old way. It would be more than ten years before I worked in the harvest again. In nineteen fifty one I helped cut wheat on this place where I now live. I look forward to harvesting another crop.

                                                                    ALONE
So you want to know what it is like to live alone. You would never ask, of course. That, you tell yourself is a very private matter. Indeed it is. What does it feel like to be alone after many years of a special intimate relationship? You have been walking the path of life for so long and suddenly you are shocked when you realize that an era has passed. No more sharing of ideas, no more quiet companionship when words are not needed for communication. Friends and relatives gather around to ease the hurt and fill the breech. They are well meaning and are appreciated but nothing, nothing can fill the void. Finally they go their separate ways and; you are alone! What then? Memories? perhaps; but it is to soon, that will come later. Fear? possibly. Who wants to face the unknown alone? Emptiness, drained of all emotion! Yes. It is not a time to face the future. Is there an aura of peace in such a situation? Yes! definitely yes. At first I wrestled with this. She was gone. She suffered; at least modern wisdom teaches this. And; I cannot mourn her passing the way the world expects me to. Why? a nagging sense of guilt creeps in. Have I somehow failed to be true to our relationship and the life of patience that she lived? I must not dwell on that one. Why? because I believe that is the first step on the road to self pity, then anger; first at ones self then it overflows to all around and then sometimes spills over to include the lost mate as well. Time heals all wounds. Is that so? I do not think so. It does seem to somehow calm the troubled waters. It no longer engulfs you in mighty waves; but the ripples are never still. A spoken word, a certain melody and after two years, the tears still flow. Are they a luxury that a Christian must put aside? I don't want to deal with that one. Still my Christian faith as I understand it, bids me let her go. To do anything less would be to deny the resurrection and her rightful place at the throne of God. If you perceive this as the rambling thoughts of an old man, you are probably right. I have passed die three-score and ten. Now comes the shocking part. Shocking at least to the uninitiated. As long as we remain here we are mortal human beings subject to all the temptations and frustrations of our time. Man is not an island unto himself. You may think that what follows is rather crude; but it illustrates a point I wish to drive home. This is a true account of what happened in a courtroom in Colorado many years ago. It was told to me by a friend. A woman was applying for financial help to feed her children. In those days recipients of welfare were scrutinized very close. In the course of the hearing the judge remarked 'You say that your husband has been dead for several years, yet I notice that some of your children are very young. How do you account for this?". She replied "Mister I ain't dead yet." The implications here are obvious. Please read on and withhold judgment. There is much more here than intimate physical attraction. There is also the need for physical as well as spiritual companionship. All these things can lead to a sense of guilt and perhaps self destruction. We dare not deny our need of them. We may choose to suppress them but I assure you that I believe the scripture in the book of Genesis expresses a great truth when it reads "It is not good that man should live alone." Catherine Marshall, who in my humble opinion is a great author and a pillar of faith, deals with this in the book "To Live Again".
She admits that she would feel resentment when she witnessed an intimate gesture between a married couple or sometimes in the company of a man she would feel the need of physical fulfillment. These feelings both bothered and annoyed her until she realized that she must release her deceased husband and let him assume his rightful place at the throne of God. Look at the scripture Our Lord and Savior once said "At the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage." This gives added meaning to the marriage vow "until death do us part." This is not a plea for understanding. Neither is it an attempt at self justification for any thought or act that may happen in the future. It may well be that sometime in the future someone in need may read this and perhaps it will smooth some troubled waters. So let it be. (To be continued in a separate article)
Having read the former article (Alone) you may be somewhat puzzled and perhaps even a bit disgusted. You certainly may be justified. Please read on. This is not the end of the matter. Perhaps you are young, maybe even middle aged and you have born the joys and sorrows of your children. If yours is a Christian family you have spent time together. You try as much as possible to share a common meal. Perhaps you have leisure time together. You have tried to function as a family. Perhaps one day you felt that you had been triumphant in a special way. Sharing that with family was a pleasure, you relished the sharing. Conversely the day yielded some disappointments. What better place is there to mend the breech than sharing the hurt around the evening meal with those who understand. And don't discount the routine sharing of the days events. There is a special blessing in a serene family relationship. I believe God intended it to be that way. It is true that we often look back and wish that we could erase the hurt that we inflicted, but we cannot change the past. We do however have the God given opportunity to make amends. But how? The answer can be found. I believe it is simply a matter of trust in my God and it is often overlooked. To trust and to accept, brings forgiveness and freedom. I believe that I must get on with the life here that is still mine to live. Perhaps Abraham Lincoln said it best "All my life I have tried to pluck a thistle and plant a flower where I thought a flower would grow."

Sept. 15, 1996
"Why are you cast down oh my soul" So wrote the psalmist of long ago. Again and again I have felt a kinship with the author. Does living alone cause this condition? It may be a contributing factor but there is something deeper here. Can it be a premonition of things to come? Perhaps. I believe in angels but have had no personal experience with them. Are they real? Of course they are. I know that they sometimes bring heavenly messages but have never received one. Back in '92 I had this feeling and a short time later word came of brother Julius' death. Coincidence? I think not. Oh it is just a rnood. Psychologist would probably call it depression. But!! what is depression? I want to write something here but the words will not come. What was it like when the Indians roamed these western plains? Sheridan County and the immediate surrounding area was not settled by white people until after the Civil War. How did those first settlers live? What did they think about or were they so busy supplying daily food and shelter that there was little time for anything else. Surely they lived with the specter of hunger and possibly starvation in the dead of winter. Being attacked or even killed by marauding bands of whites or Indians was a very real possibility. How did they cope with it? I suppose it was a situation akin to what servicemen faced in time of war. If that is so, the answer is simple. You live a day at a time and face the present while trying to prepare for the future. The scripture says it well. "Sufficient for the day are the troubles thereof." In other words don't dwell on future problems. They may never happen. It is bedtime and I look forward to a night of rest.

Oct. 13, 1996
I have the urge to take up the pen once more. What was it like to be a regular Navy man during the long months and yes, years of World War II? The carnage of battle was horrible at best. We left it where it sank at Pearl Harbor. It is a reminder that wars and the results of war are not to be tolerated; but they are still with us and the end is nowhere in sight. Perhaps it will be with us until the end of time as we know it. What drives the force of man's inhuman treatment of his fellow man? I personally know men who saw the horrors of the Auswisch death prison where millions were exterminated. The bodies were disposed of as if they were the carcass of an animal. Our troops arrived there while the fires were still burning under the ovens. Many Jews took their last ride on a railroad car designed to transport livestock. Most would end up in the ovens. Or, consider Omaha beach. It was only one of many such landings but it will long be remembered, perhaps because of the sheer mass of men and equipment who took part in that landing. Victors we were but what a terrible price we paid. I was on the Atlantic only long enough to sail from Norfolk, Virginia to Colon, Panama. Colon is the Atlantic port at the end of the Panama Canal. It may surprise you to know that the Atlantic port of Colon is actually farther west than the Pacific port of Balboa. I spent several years in that area. The jungle in the background on shore was beautiful and of a green color that never faded and of course to the west lay the vast restless waters of the Pacific Ocean. The ocean outside the break water of the harbor is never, never still. In my reverie, I think of it as my sea of grass because on quiet days and clear nights the rolling breakers resembled a field of tall grass waving in a wind. Perhaps that is part of what sustained me during those times. I often went topside after an eight to twelve watch or a twelve to four. At these times only the men on watch were about and one could enjoy the solitude and gain some peace and contentment. There was a saying in the service that certainly portrays a reality. "Hurry up and wait." A cardinal breach of the code of behavior was to be tardy. A man coming off watch could escape briefly from reality as he sat and contemplated the lonely rolling sea. For a brief period, time stood still and there was a renewal within that cannot be described. Not all of war was blood and guts. There were the countless hours of drills. Drills and more drills. You went through the motions of, Abandon Ship and General Quarters (another way of saying) get to your battle stations on the double. On the double was no leisure stroll. In such times the ship became a scene of orderly chaos. These endless drills were practiced until all was accomplished with automatic precision. On rare occasions the ship might drop anchor in a sheltered and isolated bay. A boat or boats with a rifleman aboard would be launched. This was the shark watch. After the guards were posted all hands off watch were free to go swimming. I never did, but one could relieve some one who wished to go. There was also liberty in the various ports. If the time in port was brief only one watch might go ashore. Here again if one did not care to go ashore he might relieve a buddy who wanted to go. A good ships company were a close knit group of men. Another way to get ashore was to be chosen for shore patrol. Shore patrol was the Naval equivalent of the Army's Military Police. It was not a permanent duty. Any petty officer might be called for shore duty. I have served in that capacity. We were not police in an ordinary sense.
^
Our job was to keep our men out of trouble and get them back safely aboard ship. It really was an important duty but it was usually quite pleasant and being on duty we were required to abstain from alcohol. Two events were important in a sailor's life. Crossing the International Date Line and crossing the Equator were events to be remembered. I still have my cards, duly signed that verify these events. According to my card, I crossed the International Date Line on April 9, 1945. I was aboard the U.S.S. Dutchess APA 98. This was the fkst time. We were on our way to Okinowa during the last effort to drive the Japs from the Pacific islands. Other than receiving the card, this was no special event. The International Date Line is of course on the 180th Meridian, halfway around the world from the Greenwich Meridian which is a reference point for all time. It is also, according to my card, the Domain of the Golden Dragon, Ruler of the 180th Meridian. This is a part of the lore of the Seafaring men's tradition. I have crossed it a few times since. Crossing the Equator for the first time was a different matter. The rite of passage must be strictly observed; according to Seafaring men's tradition. One must be initiated into the mysteries of the deep in keeping with the realm and be acclaimed a true and loyal son of Neptune. I crossed the Equator for the first time in September 1941 aboard the U.S.S. Trenton CLII. At that time I was a Fireman 2C, comparable in rate to a Corporal in the Army, however rank was cast aside during the ceremony even the commissioned officers received the same treatment as enlisted men. At the Int. Date Line crossing my rate was M.M.1C. Initiating the Polliwog into the order of Shellbacks was truly a gala affair. It may or may not have been done in war time. I do not know. It required much preparation. We were not subjected to violent physical abuse but the uninformed were certainly kept in utter confusion. The closest thing to abuse was when we were required to take an oath of allegiance to Neptunus Rex whose realm we had dared to enter without due permission. This of course was done by placing the hand on a book, as we swore allegiance. The book turned out to be a copper plate and we were standing barefoot on a wet deck. Just as we touched the "book" someone turned the crank on a device that produced a terrific shock. It was truly a shocking experience. Crawling through a long sleeve that had been used for gunnery practice was not pleasant. It had been filled with several days accumulated garbage that had been exposed to the hot tropical climate. Other similar trials were carried out. I suspect they were only limited by the imagination of the Shellbackers. It was fun and we looked forward to when we would be on the Shellback side of the celebration. I have since crossed the Equator many times but alas the clouds of war overshadowed all else and we went about our business of training recruits with a vengeance. The foremost thought we tried not to think about was, how much of our fleet was still battle ready. The fact was that the Pacific fleet was severely crippled but our spirit was not. We were eager to drive the Japs back to their homeland.

Oct. 1996
                                                                   ALASKA
I received my high school diploma in 1940. That occurred within a few days of my twenty-first birthday. This gave me the distinction of being the oldest member of the class. What took me so long? It may surprise you to learn that many young men in the community, just a few years my senior graduated from grade school and never returned to the formal classroom. There were several reasons for this. Money was scarce. Many were subsistence farmers and in many cases it was not possible to commute. Staying in town with a family was an option for some girls. They would do domestic work to pay for part of the board and room. Jobs for boys who stayed in town, were hard to find. It is safe to say that girls from the rural areas attended high school while their brothers stayed home and worked. This was true in my family. In fact four of my sisters finished high school and my three older brothers did not. I tried to join the Navy right after graduation but was not accepted. I needed to be circumcised. After surgery and healing it was late September before I became a Navy recruit. I took the oath at Kansas City and was soon on a train bound for Great Lakes Naval Training Station, Wakeegen, Illinois on the shores of Lake Michigan. Recruit training was a breeze. I think that it was an enjoyable time. I had been on my own for a while and that helped. Some who came directly from home found it harder to adjust. One recruit ended his Naval career by jumping off the water tower. Six years later 1 was paid off as a Chief Machinists Mate. My work was operating and maintaining machinery. I was content in that line of work. We often made repair parts in the machine shop. When I left the Navy it was my intention to obtain an engineers licence and return to the sea. This did not happen. In fact labor unions were the reason for my decision. At that time labor unions were gaining strength. It is probable that they operated within the law but they often used intimidating tactics. Woe to anyone who opposed them. We Navy personnel at Dearborn, Michigan during the first Ford Motor Co. strike were well aware of how brutal they could be. I was lead to believe that Maritime unions were the worst of the lot. After seeing the men who worked along the docks, I could well believe that. Under the system of that time, membership in a union was necessary before any job was available. I wanted no part of the unions, to independent perhaps. Well! Here I was in Seattle, Wash., and at loose ends. I was far from home with little money but that was not a thing to worry about. This was certainly not the first time. Somehow the word came that a contractor was hiring men for work on an air base at Fairbanks, Alaska, Ladd Field. Well! why not go. At the hiring desk I signed on for a year. What do you suppose was the first requirement? I joined the union as a common laborer and a group of us were soon on a plane bound for Alaska, We touched down at Whitehorse, Canada, Yukon territory and soon arrived at Fairbanks. We lived in barracks and ate at a mess hall. This was certainly nothing new. I had done that for many years. The food was plentiful and good and the huts for sleeping were comfortable. They were heated by an oil burning stove that was filled from a five gallon can. A spare can full was always kept inside. This was necessary because of the intense cold. Fuel would turn to jelly outside. It was hot in the day time when I arrived in August and the days were long. I was not there when the days were longest. Farther north there is a time of year when it does not get dark.
I saw my first permafrost. What, pray tell is that? Much of interior Alaska is frozen permanently. The southwestern islands are warmed by the ocean but farther north, inland the tundra will thaw on the surface. It will even get like a bog in places. Below the surface the ground is permanently frozen. I often wondered how they handle the water supply and I don't know the answer. They were building barracks, roads and other buildings. I worked with a jack hammer crew. Where ever digging was required we loosened the frozen earth. The work was not hard. As winter came on we were not doing much. In fact some days we were sent to isolated places where our idleness could not be seen. This was a cost plus project. Such a practice was common during the war. A contractor would bid on a project and agree to do the job at cost plus a percentage of the cost as his profit. In theory it sounded good because die contractor could not lose; but I suspect the system was abused. You see, the more the project cost the bigger the contractor's profit. I suspect that they had more men on the payroll than was actually needed. About mid November the word was passed that anyone who wanted to do so could have their contract cancelled and the company would fly them back to the States. I choose to do so with full intentions of returning in the spring. It has been a long winter. I never returned. Alaska is a big state. The landscape is as varied as the weather. Anchorage and the southeastern islands have a rather mild climate. It is warmed by the ocean. The terrain is rough. Vegetation is plentiful. There are mountains and glaciers and an abundance of water. If my memory is correct, the area around Fairbanks is rather flat. I was there in forty seven. At that time it was possible to drive from the States up the Alcan highway to the interior. The Alcan joined the Richardson and the Glenn highways. One went to Fairbanks and the other to Anchorage. I suspect they were built by the Army. I know the Alcan was. A local man, the late Jack Conard, worked on it. Freight was moved in the winter by Cat trains - a train of sleds pulled by a Crawler tractor. I knew a man who worked on one. In summer, much of the land was covered with a spongy mass called muskeg. About the only traffic it would support was foot traffic. Of course water traffic was common in summer. I thought it was a land of opportunity.

Nov. 10, 1996
The longest journeys have their end The darkest shadows flee Even the dreariest rivers Find their way to the sea. So said the poet of long ago. What longer journey is there than that one on the path of life. When I think of the path of life I am reminded of another poet and his poem. Someday I shall search my library and read it again. "The House by the Side of the Road" In essence he says. "Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man." I am especially touched by his ending. It is something to ponder in times of self evaluation. He continues: Some are good Some are bad Some are weak Some are strong Some are foolish So ami What brings on moods like this? I feel drained. I spoke in a church this morning. The message was that we must actively seek out the lost and lead them back to the path that leads to life everlasting. I stressed the importance of placing the Bible along the highways and byways of the world. I left that church with a feeling that it was flat, not exactly a failure, just flat. Some might call this mood depression but I do not think so. Only God can evaluate the results and I must let it rest there. It is times like these when I really miss Mary. She was a very quiet person but somehow her very presence filled a void. I remember many occasions on a long trip home from who knows where; I would lay my hand on the seat between us; or perhaps the order was reversed and she would lay out her hand. Regardless of who made the advance the response was the same. The partner's hands would join. There was no radio noise that might break the spell neither was a word spoken. At such precious moments nothing spoken was needed. Indeed a spoken word would shatter the silent communion. The point is this; life must be shared. If it is not then the words of the writer of Ecclesiastes seem appropriate. All else is meaningless and a chasing after wind. Those who pile up worldly goods may do so but it becomes a driving force. What is possessed is not enough. More and more becomes the goal. How many times have I heard someone say. "I would have had more but ." You, dear reader fill in the blanks. Is this not the seeds of greed sprouting within the soul. In an attempt at self examination I can say with confidence that amassing earthly treasures was never a goal. We raised our children and none of them are wealthy. If I am wrong then Mary and I failed. My most precious wish is to truthfully say, as did the Apostle Paul "I have run the race, I have fought the good fight, I have kept the faith." I have always followed a simple rule (and have sometimes failed). If what I do will harm some one else then I should not do it, or never take advantage of some one else, even in business. This certainly is not worldly wisdom. I have seen this trait in my sons and I am well pleased. The vengeance is mine, I will repay saith the Lord. So let it be.
The gathering clouds of mood are now gone. Is it possible to commune just by writing it down? If this be so then it adds credence to what the scripture teaches. "It is not good that man should be alone." The fact is that we are never alone unless we choose to isolate our selves. To do so leads to death; both physical (perhaps by self destruction) and, saddest of all eternal death.

Nov. 1996
                              PROFILE OF A GRADE SCHOOL TEACHER
Here in western Kansas one room school houses dotted the landscape. I am not sure how it was in earlier days. Sheridan County was organized in 1880. I doubt if there was any formal school in the county prior to that time. Probably home school, teaching the three R's was the rule. Perhaps a few families banded together for that purpose. I would rule that out because my father stated that only four families lived along the Solomon River in what is now Sheridan County when Grandfather settled along its banks. Indeed it was a flowing stream at that time. Few settled away from the creeks because they needed water. The population changed rapidly in the eighties. As a matter of fact the population soon numbered more than four thousand and it has been declining since that peak. Americans have always took pride in our high literacy rate, so schools soon became organized. The building was usually a wood frame building perhaps twenty four by thirty. The teacher might have as high as thirty pupils and all eight grades. Since transportation was probably on foot or horse back it was mandated that no child should need to walk more than three miles to attend school. Most were closer, I and my brothers and sisters walked about two miles. Quite often the teacher was a young woman fresh out of school. In my time one could graduate from high school, take a summer of "normal" course, pass the required test, then they were a qualified teacher. Most teachers I knew were women. It was not unusual for a young teacher to have a pupil or two almost as old as she was. It was customary for a teacher to board and room with a local family. I think that custom was changing about the time I finished grade school. Cars and improved roads made it easier to travel. I believe that my father attended Normal School. He may well have held a teacher's certificate but he did not teach school. My mother taught at least one term. During their early years I am sure that an eighth grade diploma and normal school were sufficient to obtain a teacher's certificate. I suspect in the earlier times the teacher often married a local resident. The school was supervised by a three man school board. I suppose that a woman might have served after the nineteenth amendment to the U.S. Constitution was passed. It was called the women's suffrage movement. It gave women the right to vote and Frances E. Willard was a leader in that movement. Since I was born about that time I was named Willard. It is safe to say that schools evolved. Certainly a young, inexperienced teacher must have had a hard time. Eight grades were called to the recitation bench at the front of the room each day. In the course of a normal day they might be called forward for a lesson in geography, arithmetic, grammar, English, spelling and history. Not all grades took all these studies every year. A bit of arithmetic would soon convince you that the time was too limited for that. The school day started at nine a.m. and lasted until twelve o'clock with a fifteen minute recess. It started again at one 1 p.m. and lasted until four o'clock with a fifteen minute recess. This equaled five and one half hours per day, five days per week, eight months per year. Eight years were normally required to complete this course of study. If a pupil failed and did not complete the required course of study, that pupil could quit school at age sixteen. This happened for various reasons. A slow learner might just give up. Many compassionate teachers would make the extra effort and try to get the pupil to finish More frequently it was a case where the pupil was absent from school and working at home. This more often happened to a boy but sometimes a girl might be required to take the place of an ailing or dead mother.
There were truancy laws but with local control of the school they were not rigidly enforced. Did the teacher have complete control over the school subject, to the elected school board? No, the county superintendent wielded a great deal of influence. I believe they were elected and they might be re-elected many times. Naturally the teacher wanted us to shape up during the county superintendent's visit but they could come unannounced. Their office also required them to supervise the county examinations. These exams were given every spring to every seventh and eighth grader. A passing grade was required. A diploma was issued to all eighth graders who met the requirements and graduation ceremonies were conducted in a central location every spring. I graduated in nineteen thirty three. This was during the depth of the depression. It was decreed that the boys would wear bib overalls made of blue denim and chambray shirts. The girls wore gingham dresses. Quite an appropriate attire, don't you think? We may have been poor in worldly goods but we certainly had our pride and so did the teachers. I do not mourn their passing but I believe they served us well. So let it be.

Dec. 6, 1996
^
Bob is home from Florida. It is nice to have company but he is not one to sit quietly at home on long evenings. He will sometimes read a book in the quiet time but it seems that a force drives him to seek out others. How amazing it is that each person is unique. How is it possible that no two people in all creation were ever just alike? I enjoy solitude but quiet company is enjoyable. There are schools of thought held by scholars that seem to differ. Some say that the individual is shaped by genetics. Or put another way manners and attitudes are inherited. If that is true then why are father and son or mother and daughter often direct opposites? Certainly environment appears to shape many people. Consider the fact dial a doctor's son often becomes a doctor, or a good preacher may be fadier to another preacher. Look around and see how often, like father like son is true; but we must acknowledge the fact that the opposite also is true. My observations lead me to believe that what has been mentioned is not so easily applied to women; but as more and more women leave the home and join the work force that too may change.