Ha! I bet you thought I’d died or something. Not so.
From Palmer Canyon we moved to HWY 34, south and west of Wheatland. We rented from Bernetta Carberry. There was a garage, barn, and chicken house. I loved having chickens, but we had a rooster who hated Mrs. Carberry. She came out to the place once or twice a week. The chickens were pretty much free range and when her back was turned he’d nail her in the back of her leg. That happened twice, but the last time she insisted either we wring his neck or we’d have to move. We liked chicken and dumplings so he met his demise, but it wasn’t long and we moved east up the highway to the Keil place.
That summer I played on the women’s slow-pitch team for the Commadore Bar. It was so much fun. Right up to the point when I tore the muscle on the top of my right thigh. Here’s the play by play…Rick Bowen, owner of the bar and coach, put me in as catcher. So far I’m doing great. He also had me down as first batter (not a great strategy. I stepped up to the plate, swung, and hit an incredible drive between the short-stop and second base. I ran hard, but about four steps toward first base I felt this excrutiating pain of the muscle separating. Rick was being the first base coach and kept yelling, “Run! Run!”. So, I ran! Clear to second base where he called in a replacement runner and carried me off the field. Someone pulled a bag of ice out of a beer cooler and it layed on my leg, and there I set for the remainder of the game.
It seems I don’t have very good luck with playing the baseball sort of games. In the early evening on the 4th of July, before Red and I were married, we were playing baseball in the pasture east of Curly and Bonnie Dura’s log house on Washington Road. I was playing third base. Walt Mann hit the ball my direction. It hit the rock we were using for the base and bounced up and popped me in the lip. It split my lip and Red dashed me off to the doctor’s office where Dr. Howshar put four stitches in it. We were out of there in time to watch the fireworks, but I wasn’t feeling to cheerful.
Rick and Shirley Keil owned the trailer house we moved into after the Carberry place. I was pregnant with Sarah. Red was working for Worthen Van Service in Guernsey. Allen King moved in with us that summer. We had two bedroom. Since Red and Allen worked nights, Jeremy and BJ slept their usual routine. I would get them off to school and then Allen would sleep in one of their beds during the day.
After Sarah was born I think I suffered from post-partum depression. Understandibly since it had been 9 years between babies, and the fact that she was a colicky baby. My God! I remember a time when I was so depressed, I put a sign on my bedroom door that said something to the effect that ‘the Queen was in her room and was not to be disturbed!!!’ and I went to bed. The guys took it seriously and I was able to sleep all afternoon. I never had to do that again.
WARNING! If you have a tendency to be offended by women who nurse in public…DO NOT READ beyond this point.
I was producing mega amounts of milk after the little red-head birth. So much so, even though I was taking those little football shaped pills to dry me up, I could sit in the bathtub and literally take a milk bath. What a wonderful feeling to have the pressure released from my breasts.
When Jeremy and BJ were born, I was told by their father that I could not breast-feed my babies. “No wife of mine is having a baby hanging off her chest!” Yeah, that’s what I thought too. Anyway, one afternoon I was in so much pain, and Sarah was crying so much. Her poor little guts were just killing her. For some reason the maternal instinct took over and I put the babe to my breast. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!! She sucked so hard and my breasts were so tender. It hurt so bad, I never did that again!
One night during the coldest night of the winter, maybe during Christmas break when Jeremy and BJ were in Wisconsin (because I was alone with Sarah) I was hearing noises. I was getting really scared, so while Sarah slept, I was wide awake. My imagination led me to believe someone was outside the mobile home. So I picked up my .22 revolver and watched out the windows. I couldn’t see anything but was still hearing the noises. Now keep in mind that I most always had someone around at night and this young woman wasn’t all that brave. My next course of action in my near hysteria was to call the Sheriff’s Department, and call I did. Whomever I was talking to was so calm and patient. At some point she offered to send a deputy, but I was calming down some and we decided that was’t necessary. The moment I told her I had a gun she really started paying attention. She asked me all sorts of questions about it. I think she wanted to make sure I knew what I had and maybe even that I was familiar enough with it to use it. It wasn’t long, and we were nearly friends at this point, that we agreed that it was probably just the extreme cold causing the metal to creak.
In April of the following year we moved to the Cozad place, owned by Harvey Cozad, one mile south of town. This was a good place for us. We stayed eleven years and then bought our present home in town.
More for another day.