The Boy From Comstock 3mt6d

The Boy from Comstock

STEVEN F. AMOS

Copyright © 2020 Steven F. Amos.

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ISBN: 978-1-9822-4081-3 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-9822-4082-0 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 01/07/2020

In memory of Kalso and Eula Amos.

Dedicated to Charley, Presley, and Emery

CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1 In the Beginning Chapter 2 Going Home Chapter 3 Our Eleven Acres Chapter 4 Old Paint Chapter 5 I Come to the Garden Chapter 6 Coon Hunting Chapter 7 The Harvest Chapter 8 Uncle Heck Chapter 9 Other Uncles Chapter 10 Bigger Britches Chapter 11 Halloween Chapter 12 Christmas Chapter 13 Stormy Days Chapter 14 Picking up Corn Chapter 15 Down by the River Chapter 16 The Wanna- be Coon Dog

Chapter 17 Sports Chapter 18 Taylor Chapter 19 Omaha Chapter 20 Further Along

PREFACE

L ife in the Nebraska Sandhills is one of many emotions. Its fickleness and fury have been documented. History is full of stories of those who were overcome by the elements: Children who left for school who were never found again due to the rapid changes in the weather. A clear calm morning becoming a snarling windswept landscape blowing dirt, sand, tumbleweeds, and leaves so hard that one cannot see. A warm spring day developing into blizzards and winds so pitched that sounds eerily resemble scr eams. Those elements are contrasted by the morning sun peeking over the hills with wispy clouds tinted with a bit of yellow signaling a new beginning. The voices of the night give way to the song of a meadowlark, the cackling of a pheasant, and the whistle of the bob white. One sees grouse gathered on the meadows and haystacks. Gradually the soft breeze gains some strength and the sun climbs higher in the sky. Cattle gather at the windmill, swishing their tails at the flies that gather around them. As evening approaches, a breathtaking scene of serenity and beauty is embedded in one’s memory. The various colors of the evening and its bliss and peacefulness is so serene that it feels like an out of body experience. It is no wonder that people who reside here refuse the comfort of the metropolitan areas and spend a lifetime in the Sandhills. They are living poetry. Although I have spent most of my life elsewhere, my childhood memories always take me back to the days when I lived in the Sandhills. It is these experiences I share with those who know me. To me it is “God’s Country.” To others, like my wife, it is “God’s Forsaken Country.” Comstock is a village located along the banks of the Middle Loup River. The youngest village in Custer County was established in 1899. At its peak in the 1930s, there were a little over 600 residents and the latest report lists 93 residents. Like many of the small villages in the area, it was built along the railroad tracks and provided services for the community. There were about 250 residents in the 1950s; the era and time of this story. The valley between the hills by the river provided the necessary water to grow crops. The remainder of the area, as well as most of the Sandhills, was better suited for livestock. It is cattle

country. Comstock was off the beaten highway so you had to go out of the way to get there. The roads that entered and left Comstock were gravel or county roads. In time, the road into Comstock from the west was called a “spur” and would eventually be paved. Ironically, most of the residents had moved on by the time the road was upgraded and very little of the village exists as compared to the time of my story. During the ’50s, Comstock had a grocery store, café, bar, two gas stations, bank, hardware store, dry goods store with drug store, shoe repair shop, print shop, post office, city park, and school with grades K-12. An independent blacksmith shop helped farmers with broken machinery. Many of the residents became permanent residents of Douglas Grove, the cemetery on the hill just west of Comstock. The graves of many of my ancestors can be found in Dry Valley Cemetery where many were related to the Amos’s. They homesteaded in this area in the 1880s. This little cemetery is halfway between Comstock and Broken Bow, just a mile or so west of Highway 183.

Somewhere hearts melt and unite in love History is repeated over again and embraced like a dove For time begins with man and his wife And they vow together for evermore their life To share with one another although that’s all they got This is what it is and all they sought Kissed with angels and hand in hand they’re on the way With only each other to get through the day Soon to share with the world a newborn son

Joy and celebration for everyone Smiling and proud and this very day so glad Here together with my own Mom and Dad Life begins on Dead Horse Creek in Loup City a little village town Just the three of us can be found Holding on to one another and not sure where we go Just that we have each other to love us so That’s how it began and now the saga is here to share The tale of adventures of a young lad for those that care

By Steve Amos (and EK)

The Big Story

CHAPTER 1

In the Beginning

O n a summer day in June, a young mother-to-be went fishing with her father-inlaw at Oak Grove by the Middle Loup River near Comstock, Nebraska. Only 17, but soon to turn 18, she was top heavy with her first born and, as she fidgeted, had the misfortune of falling off a log. She was alright and a few days later she gave birth to a healthy baby boy in Loup City, two days after her own birthday, June 15. Everything was good except that her baby had a birthmark on the left side of his face. She would always the fall off the log and felt it was her fault and the reason for the birth mark. This was my mother. She came from a family of 15 siblings and married the seventh son (my dad), who was one of 17 siblings. The early days of my life were spent with my grandparents and my many aunts and uncles. A black lab, Pat, guarded me in my early days, assuring that all needed permission before playing with me. When I ed my second birthday, Mom and Dad embarked on a new venture that would take us to Oregon. One of Mom’s aunts had a tract of land that included some valuable timber. Although Dad lacked experience in logging, he was intrigued by the prospects of making a better living, so we set off on a new adventure. He worked for a few months in a sawmill, gaining experience for what he would soon be doing on his own. Dad had gone to school as far as the eighth grade. When he was still in his teens, he ed a couple of his brothers and hopped a freight train to Nevada during the Great Depression. They would find wild horses and break them to earn money. His stay there was short lived as he came down with rheumatic fever. As a result of his sickness, he developed a heart murmur. Unable to walk, my dad went back home to Nebraska in a wheelchair, to live with his parents and family. He eventually was able to get up and around but could only walk backward at first since his muscle memory, a result of the fever, kept him from walking

normally. As he recovered, he regained the ability to walk normally again.

Grandpa John Amos, better known as “Shine” had a bar and billiards business in town. If someone wanted to play a game of snooker against the house, Dad would play them but could not afford to lose the dime they played for. He became a very good player, but the pressure of winning kept him from enjoying the game. Besides that, this was not where he wanted to be in life. Dad was always interested in building and fixing things. This was his forte and one he would be known for. He understood and was proficient in mechanics, building, plumbing, electricity, logging, and inventing. He never sought a patent on his inventions but should have. His life was about making a living and he sought perfection in all he did. He was not a businessman. His talent was in his ability to apply himself in what he did. iration was bestowed on him by those he toiled for and his character was about honesty and truthfulness. He lived by the Golden Rule: His word was his bond and he completed whatever task he set about. His perseverance was off the charts. He never gave up. Yet, much of his work never resulted in payment—just promises that were never kept. Dad was small in stature, with blue eyes and light brown hair, but he always seemed bigger than life to me. From an early age, I knew and understood that what he said was the rule and accepted this with few exceptions which were short lived and often punctuated with a belt across my bottom. Dad had high aspirations for me and challenged me to do my best. I often viewed him as being harsh, but he had a gentle side. He liked to teach me how things worked. It must have been frustrating since I did not share the same focus or drive. Many of his lessons were meant to keep me from harm in the rigors of everyday life. He was driven to make everything work, and there was always plenty to do, yet he would try to blend some fun into my childhood days. I grew up being very attached to my parents and was reliant on them. They were my foundation in good times and bad. Upon moving to Oregon in 1948, we rented an apartment in a row house in Grand Ronde. Dad learned the trade in the lumber business in the rainy winter months before he set out for the mountains on his own. He settled on Bell Mountain and the area belonged to my mom’s aunt. One of my first memories is of my grandparents on my dad’s side who came to visit us. I had the unfortunate habit of being a bed wetter. This wasn’t something my grandmother would put up with. I spent my early mornings with my face

being rubbed into my mess by my grandmother and laying there on my hands and knees with my face on the wet spot. I just didn’t have what it took not to do this. My grandmother was very lovable and was very kind to me, but this act of bed wetting was unacceptable. One night as I prepared for bed, my grandpa was eating some pink peppermint candies. He handed me one while telling me this would solve my bedwetting problem. Sure enough, I awoke in the morning and discovered that I indeed did not wet the bed. I was cured! Not long after that I vaguely being thirsty while my mom and dad were busy painting a room. I was unable to gain their attention, so I picked up a can of paint thinner and drank some of it. I survived, but another episode would leave a scar for life. It was a nice spring day, and as my mother was hanging clothes outside, I once again found myself thirsty. The sink was blocked by an old washing machine with rollers—known as the old wringer machine. I was about to learn why they called it a wringer machine. I slid a chair next to the kitchen faucet and leaned across the wringer machine. As I reached for the faucet to get water, I steadied myself with my other hand on the rollers. I was soon horrified at the sight of my arm being reeled in and the pain I felt as it drew my arm in up and over the elbow. Crazy as it sounds, I the relief I felt once it got over the elbow but then came the armpit and that’s when I lost consciousness. My arm was saved but I was left with some bad blood sacs dangling from my arm—the rollers had pushed my blood up to the armpit. I picked them open and caused a bloody mess, but after a visit to the hospital, I was okay. Those scars served as a reminder from that time on to avoid putting my hands on contraptions with rollers! I the apartment was a noisy dwelling and you could hear the neighbors when they fought. One time I noticed an open door and a broom sticking in the ceiling. The neighbors had been fighting and the husband was upset and angry. There was a loud bang and I saw a man lying on the threshold. I was too young to understand that it was a domestic fight and the husband attempted suicide, but he only shot himself in the shoulder. Another time there was an incident I seeing from the back door. I did not know the men, but one man ran up to the other from behind and knocked him out with a blow to the head. I cried to my mother, but I do not know what happened. I just recall being frightened. It was not too long after that that we moved to a small cabin on Bell Mountain

where my dad logged. By this time another baby, my sister Cindy, was with us. It was a one-room cabin with limited space. There was no place for a crib, so my sister slept in a basket hung from the ceiling. My bed was in a shed about forty or fifty yards from the cabin. I would go to the shed after the sun went down while it was twilight. The shed was also home to pack rats. I know Mom was not for me sleeping in the shed since there were bears and other wild animals on the mountain. I dreaded going to the shed at night since I was afraid of the dark. Once there, like any child, I was okay. I when an uncle of ours was helping my dad and slept there, too. He didn’t like the pack rats either. I would be awakened by loud curses. One night he even fired a gun as he sought to get rid of the critters. That didn’t go over well with my dad. Later, when I was older, Dad and Mom told me that my uncle carried the gun with him at night due to the bears and the mountain lions, but it wasn’t supposed to be for the pack rats. I can recall picking wild blackberries near the cabin with Mom. One of those times she caught sight of a mountain lion and hurried us back to the cabin. She was afraid we were being stalked. For whatever reason, I Mom struggling with log chains around logs. Dad would have her wrap the log chains around some logs and then link them together. They were very heavy and difficult for someone her size to handle. Some of my memories are most likely due from her recounting her own ventures. One time, she parked on the downslope of the mountain road to gather some flowers and the car began to roll. She was able to catch it in time, but it left her with a frightful memory. I vaguely the incident. I can also recall seeing bear paw prints along that same road and how big they were. My mother like her mother before her, enjoyed music and listening to the radio. I can still hear her hum and sing “Mockingbird Hill.” I also recall “How Much is the Doggie in the Window?” which may be because we had a little black and white rat terrier named Butch that we played with and who watched over my sister and me. Music would always be a way of life for us. I have memories I can associate with what was playing or I was singing at that time.

Out by the Calamus across the bridge and west of the dam My mother was born and raised in the valley of the sand Along with fourteen other siblings who were raised with her at that time There is only a depression in the ground by a gravel pit and hard to find I fished the river with my parents when we went there for a day Escorted by the deer flies and chiggers along my way I made my trip to the river picking up sand burrs and cactus that stuck to me to the bone Nearby my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

Mom

Mom liked to show me the depression in the ground where her home once stood —where she was raised along with all her siblings. It was homecoming to her and brought back memories of her childhood, both good and bad. I’m sure with that many brothers and sisters that it was no picnic growing up in the middle of nowhere. There are tales of children losing their lives in the Sandhills due to the extremes of the weather conditions. Going off to school on a bright sunny day, the wind could come up and blow so hard that children would become lost and never found until it was too late. The nearest neighbors were usually miles away and it was easy to become disorientated and begin thinking that all the hills looked the same. My mother never talked much about her childhood, although I know her time growing up in the Sandhills was hard. She lived with her parents and siblings on the Calamus River north of Taylor. She would talk a bit about how her dad drank a lot and was mean when he drank so she and the others would hide from him. I never saw this side of him as he was over his drinking days by the time I arrived. Mom had to quit school in her early teens to get away from home and seek employment. Shortly thereafter, she met my dad. Happier times came with the union they formed. Mom was smallish in stature, about five foot two, with dark hair and blue eyes. She was very resourceful and could make something from nothing, which she did almost her whole life. She did not have the talents of my dad, but she was the wind beneath his wings that made everything work. She had good imagination and a pleasing and happy personality. She was a very good cook who could make just about anything taste edible. Above all, she was a great mother. I began my school years in Grand Ronde and like most kids, I recall being scared and not ready to be left without my mother. I have pictures of me on the playground in my little red jacket, with Mom standing nearby. She was my anchor and I can recall the feeling of being abandoned. An old report card confirmed my problem of adjusting to school at first, but as the first year came to an end, I had begun to accept school and others.

Soon after I began school, a carnival came to the area and I was at the game watching the miniature duck figures floating around. The guy encouraged me to pick one and my dad, ever alert, noticed that the one I picked allowed me a bigger prize than was offered. After a small argument, I was given a choice and I finally settled on a piggy bank that looked like a pig. I still have it today and after all these years it has only a blemish. My parents used to put their pennies in it. One day when my uncle, on my mother’s side, was babysitting me, he had the urge for a beer but no money. He talked me into letting him whack the penny slot to enlarge it a bit so he could get enough out to have a beer. Boy was Dad mad, and at me too, for giving permission for him to get in the piggy bank. I never felt I had much to say about him getting money out of the bank. Every time I see the piggy bank, it reminds me of how I got it—and how it got the blemish. As a kid, I had an issue with my tonsils and would have swollen glands and sore throats that were severe enough that my dad decided I should have them removed. They had caused me to miss a lot of school. That stay in the hospital would be my last for quite a while and fine by me.

CHAPTER 2

Going Home

I stroll along in the afternoon sun on the dirt road Near a water puddle hopping away is dusty toad There ahead I see the thicket of chokecherries The rabbits scurry and the birds flutter as I fill my sack with berries Eating a few that cause me to pucker and drip down my shirt band With a wave of my hat and a swipe of my face with my hand I when my granddad and parents were with me and I wasn’t alone Nearby my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

A s the work for the timber clearing was winding down, my dad hauled the final log down the mountain. He had saved the biggest and best for last. With the money he earned, he bought a car and we packed our belongings and headed back to Nebr aska. Going home was an adventure and left me with more memories. Along the way, we stopped at a mountain to take a break. Being somewhat oblivious to my surroundings, I stepped off the cliff edge only to be grabbed by the shirt collar by my uncle. Ever since that miracle snatch, I’ve had a fear of heights. Everyone

was amazed I didn’t fall off that cliff edge. It was astounding that my uncle was able to grab me. One of the recurring nightmares I have had throughout my life, is that we’re driving along that cliff edge, the car door swinging open, and me holding on for dear life, until I wake up from my nightmare. Somewhere along the way near Winnemucca, Nevada, at a country gas station, I was left behind and after almost an hour of searching for my parents, a highway patrolman gathered me up and somehow got me reunited with my parents. I can the happiness of being reunited along with some stern words by the officer to my parents. My days of loggin’ were behind me and a new chapter was to begin. Upon our arrival in Comstock, I was very excited to see my grandparents and aunts and uncles. Everyone had gathered there for the funeral of another brother who died in the Korean War. He died on June 16, one day after my birthday. I was too young to understand or appreciate his service and sacrifice for our country. Anyway, I was sent out to the car to fetch something and I did not notice that Grandpa Shine, as he was called, had a single barbed-wire fence four or five feet high around the yard that sagged a bit between the posts. When I turned around to run back into the house or front porch where everyone was gathered, I ran full steam into it just missing my eye and hitting me on the cheek. It knocked me for a loop. I got to my feet and picked up my package and ran into it again. Then I did it again. And again! Finally, someone yelled, and they came to my aid as I walked into it yet again. They patched me up and I still have the scar. Grandpa took the wire down the following day. I never understood why I couldn’t to duck other than I was excited and a bit woozy from the first run in. We settled into a small home in town near the school. I only had to run from the house, into and up a ditch, and there I was. I there was a small chicken house behind the house, and I was given the chore of feeding them. It was my first interaction with farm animals. It gave me chores to do and I enjoyed them. Grandma Amos often came to the school and always embarrassed me with kisses and hugs in front of everyone. Grandpa made sure that I toed the line. If I was running through the house, he could give me a sharp rap with his knuckles on top of my head that would settle me down. I can still recall the sharp rap and it did the trick. Other than making me obey, he was always good to me.

I liked being around my grandparents and the attention I received. Grandpa Shine chewed tobacco and sometimes the juice would drip down his chin. He also played an accordion. He would take out the accordion and play some tunes on the front porch. Sometimes an uncle would him with an accordion, and they would play together. Picking chokecherries was one of my favorite things to do. I can the first time we went out with my grandparents and Mom and Dad. This would become an annual ritual that I would enjoy through the years. We would venture out into the hills around Comstock until we found the bushes we were looking for. The meadow larks, wood thrushes, sparrows, finches, robins, and redwinged blackbirds would flush from the bushes as we made our way. Sometimes a rabbit would scurry away and even a toad could be found trying to get out of the way. We would have to be careful to avoid the prickly plants like the small cactus and thorny limbs of plants that would scratch and irritate you if you were not careful. There would be flies buzzing around to annoy us and bees and wasps to be careful of. Oftentimes, if the native plants didn’t snag me, the barbed-wire fencing that the bushes grew around would tear at my skin and clothes. It was a small price to pay as the reward far outweighed the obstacles. Although the sun would be very warm, the Sandhills always had a bit of a breeze that would keep me comfortable as I made my way around the branches of fruit. The soft breeze would help keep the insects from pestering us too. The aroma was pleasing and I would take a deep breath occasionally, filling my lungs with the sweet smell and freshness of the elements around me. The berries were tart so I would not eat them as I picked but my Grandpa Shine liked to indulge himself as he picked. They would pucker him up and his chewing tobacco would dribble down his chin and onto his shirt and bib overalls. When we had gleaned what we could from a favorite spot, we would move on to another area and continue the process until there were enough berries for Grandma and Mom to make jams and other treats. The joy of picking berries and the presence of family to share the experience made for wonderful memories. The chokecherry jam they would make remains one of my favorites to this day. My grandmother, Bessie, liked to spoil my sister and me. This despite the fact that there were still a couple of her children, my aunts, still living at home. My grandpa’s dad, my great grandpa, had homestead in the late 1880s,

somewhere between Comstock and Broken Bow, in an area called Dry Valley. This is where my dad was born, in a sod house. My grandpa used to cut ice in the winter on the river and deliver coal. In the summer, he would deliver ice from the ice house he had built. Sometime along the way he owned a bar and pool hall. We had moved into a home a few blocks from my grandparents and close to the school. It was a good time for bonding with each other since we lived so close to their home. I didn’t get enough time with my grandpa as it wasn’t very long that we were gathered at his home with the terrible news that he had a serious stroke. As we were there, my sister and I were summoned to his bedside and he gave us his love and words of encouragement. Shortly thereafter, a loud scream came from my aunt and the pronouncement that he ed away. There was a large gathering for the funeral as this was a large family. Several of them lived on the West Coast and hadn’t been home for a while. He left me way too early.

CHAPTER 3

Our Eleven Acres

The area in an unfinished attic is where I would sleep Sweet dreams of playing with my dog by the creek The cold north wind would gather snow on my bed a heavy buffalo coat would keep me warm where I lay my head It was early to bed and early to rise chores to be done Kept me busy and happy and on the run I had my dog, Mom, Dad and sister so I wasn’t alone Those was the days near my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

M y dad bought a small farmhouse with eleven acres, just outside of town on the South side by the railroad tracks. Across from the tracks was a meadow next to the Middle Loup River. The one-bedroom farmhouse had a kitchen, living room, laundry room, and a hallway that led to an unfinished attic with two window dormers, one on the north and one on the south. It included an open wrap-around porch on the south and west sides of the house. There was no heating and no indoor plumbing unless you counted the hand pump in the kitchen. There was a small cellar for canned goods and a larger outdoor cellar that was partially caved in. There was a chicken house and a small tool-shed-garage combo building. A

creek ran on the east side of the house and diagonally south where it drained into a pond and then continued southwest under the railroad tracks and meandered to the river. Several old cottonwood trees grew around the h ouse. South of the barn the ground rolled down toward the railroad tracks forming a meadow that came to a point near the pond. Dad acquired some cows and chickens and we would sell the cream and eggs and use the milk for the farm animals and ourselves. There was plenty of space for a large garden. We would listen to the radio at night or read. Besides music, there would be comedy acts that we would listen to. On weekends, we would listen to the Grand Ole Opry and Saturday or Sunday mornings, to the Big Joe Polka bands. My early recollection of reading was from comic books. Mom would send me on errands to the drug store located on Main Street, which aded Wescott Gibbons dry goods store, to pick up something and the pharmacist would stick a comic book with a missing back or front page in the sack for me. They were generally about cowboy heroes of that age. I the Lone Ranger, Hopalong Cassidy, Lash LaRue, and Red Ryder. He obviously liked me and since I never had money, his generosity always stayed with me in my memory. My sister’s bedroom was the washroom. We used the pot belly stove in the kitchen by her room for cooking and heat when we moved in. Corn cobs would be next to the stove to start it up in the morning and then wood was added to provide heat. Dad altered the shed and expanded it to allow for milking cows and a stall and pen for newborn calves. We had ducks, geese, and later, hogs. We also had coon dogs and cats. Dad was never fond of cats, so they kept their distance. Of course, I liked them all, so they hung around me. They just weren’t allowed in the house despite my pleas. As early as I can , I had daily chores. I took care of the coon hounds and that if Dad found them without water in the pans, that I could expect a belt or willow branch across my britches. Like Grandpa before him, he didn’t tolerate excuses. I was expected to gather the cows in the barn and have them ready for milking. Dad had an old radio that played in the barn. He liked it for the weather reports and news and all of us liked it for the music—including the cows. It was always on 1010 KRVN Lexington, Nebraska. For the evening milking, it had the latest music and so I got to listen to the latest tunes, both

country and pop. This was the golden age of music. I hearing Johnny Cash and my dad saying to me that one of his early songs, “Teenage Queen,” was one he liked. He seldom mentioned liking any songs on the radio, so I always this one. He did however like to sing a song to me called “The Strawberry Roan.” Mom liked to hum and sing the “Red Wing Polka” or a version of it and her favorite (as was everyone else’s), the “Tennessee Waltz.” It was a good time when they sang around me. I would feel happy and loved. When Dad took me out hunting for pheasants for the first time, he told me how he and his dad were hunting once on a very foggy morning on the meadows just west of town. They were able to walk right up on the birds and shoot them; it was the most birds they ever got in one outing. It never occurred to me at the time, but most likely it was a good memory for him because he grew up during the Depression, so this meant they were able to enjoy a good meal. My early years were packed with lessons about life on the farm. I was finding out about what happened when you put your tongue on metal in the wintertime. I needed to be careful when I went through barbed-wire fences to avoid getting scratched or cut. I learned to avoid wasps and hornets. Most of all, I was learning about discipline. I learned to be sure I shut the gates so the animals wouldn’t get out or else! There were responsibilities that a farm boy had and if I got sidetracked, Dad reminded me so that I would understand how to maintain my focus. Dad watched over me more than I knew. He realized that there were hidden dangers around the farm and some he could not control. I learned you don’t mess with Mother Nature. You learn to be aware of the elements at a young age or pay the price. I had several close calls but those lessons I learned at that age helped me. I survived working with livestock and wild animals at a tender age with the help of my parents and some good fortune. I learned about wind, hail, snow, blizzards, and tornadoes and the misery and danger that came with them. A misstep at the wrong time could lead to serious and dangerous consequences.

It was just a stick painted black with some white spots with reins made of twine But it was old paint to a boy of eight and was all mine

Through the meadow around the pond and over the railroad track We would run as fast as the wind chasing bad guys around the haystack Till it was time to stop and let “Old Paint” rest while the chores were done Since work on the farm needs a helping hand and it can’t be all fun A little cowboy could not understand how mom and dad Had no money and times were bad That mom had worried and fretted and stayed up at night That her children would still have Christmas and things would be alright

By Steve Amos (and EK)

CHAPTER 4

Old Paint

C hristmas time is an exciting time of the year. When you are seven, eight, or nine years old it can be even more exciting. When you are a farm boy whose only exposure to the outside world is a radio, other school children, and books. your imagination is filled with wo nder. My bedroom was an unfinished attic without heat and only a few boards for a floor. There was a very drafty north window in the dormer directly across from a likewise drafty south window. Tree branches rubbing on the roof sounded just like reindeer when the wind blew. Snow blowing in through the cracks by the chimney, through the windows, and from the ceiling gathered on my bed while I slept. I snuggled under the blankets topped with a very heavy buffalo hide. I was warmed by a brick which had been heated by the wood stove, wrapped in a towel, and carried to bed with me. I had never been exposed to stores and shops where toys lined the aisles. My playthings came from the town dump outside the village where my grandparents lived. It was always a treat to visit Grandma and Grandpa who lived fifteen or twenty miles from us on a small acreage near the Middle Loup River. The road to their place went right through the town dump and we would stop and look for our treasures. I never knew how poor we were because I was too young and since we milked our own cows and had our own farm animals, we always had something to eat.

We never had an indoor toilet, only an outhouse. In the winter, it was with a bit of hesitation that I would run out to use it. We did have indoor water which Grandma never had. Plus, we had electricity. Still, it was always good to go to Grandma’s. Even though she had fifteen children of her own (as of this writing, thirteen are still living) I always felt special. She was always happy and would softly whistle or hum tunes as she sat in her rocking chair knitting. She had a large goiter on her neck, but it never seemed to bother her.

Their home was a small two-bedroom bungalow without utilities. The water pump sat outside the front door and the water pail just inside the front door; seemed handy to me. A stand of various sorts of cedar and evergreen trees grew on the east side with the outhouse in the midst of them. Grandpa had a chicken house on the south side where he kept some ducks, too. It was fun to go there and play with their black lab, Wilbur, and run around in the yard. One winter day we pulled into the yard after a fresh snowfall. Wilbur got up from an old sofa under the cedar tree to greet us. After a pat on the head and a cold nose on my face, I noticed that the snow began to move on the old sofa where Wilbur had been. My uncle Job, a WWII Marine veteran, had come home to visit and was sleeping under the tree on the sofa. I worried that he may be cold, but he liked to say to me that “as long as a man has a bedroll, toothbrush, and a cup of coffee, he is okay.” Whenever we would visit, much too soon it would be time to leave since we had cows to milk and chores to be done. At home in the morning I would receive a call from my dad standing at the bottom of the steps to get up. I would scurry down the steps and dress by the wood stove where a fire would be roaring from the corn cobs just dumped in. I would hurry outside and bring in some sticks of wood from the open porch that had been gathered to throw on the fire. Then, I would grab my ax from the porch and walk down to the pond about a hundred or more yards south of the barn and chop a couple of holes in the ice with the cows right behind me. While they were drinking, I would go to the barn and get them a ration of corn or hay and put it in their stalls. When I opened the barn door, they would be waiting for me. They each had their own stall and would go to their appointed one. Dad, Mom, and I each had our assigned cows and would milk with the cats sitting by patiently waiting for their reward. Of course, I would occasionally squirt a stream at them, oftentimes hitting them on their ears and head. It did not seem to bother them as they licked their faces. The milk was carried into the house and down the steps to a cellar where I would pour it into a hand separator and turn the crank until I had the milk and cream in separate containers. Skimmed milk would come out one spout and cream would come out another spout. I would feed the farm animals with the skim milk and

when the cream can was full, it was sold to the store. Some cream was saved by Mom to make butter. My sister, Cindy, would take the separator parts, when I was done, and wash them. I would take the milk and head to the various stations in the barnyard where the animals awaited their portions. All the animals loved me or so I thought. I was the pied piper of the barnyard. Then it was time for breakfast before hurrying off to school. I always had a big imagination. I would play games in my head as I walked along or dream about things I loved to read. At night I would listen to the radio. Mom would tell me stories and I had lots of aunts and uncles who liked to tell me stories and tease me. I knew my dad would be chopping down a tree and bringing it home just before Christmas and I was excited. Mom would make popcorn and string it together. And, of course Santa would come in the night when I was asleep and bring me something. Those days, it was one gift, unlike the endless presents we bestow on the children today, but it was very exciting. As Christmas drew nearer, I noticed Mom sewing more than usual in her rocker. She had a more serious demeanor; even as a child I noticed it. Mom was generally happy (and is who I got my cheerfulness from). Unknown to me was the fact that there was no money in the household. Due to various circumstances, income was not going to arrive for Christmas, and it was a very bleak time. Instead of happiness, gloom and despair filled the days leading up to this particular Christmas and it wasn’t in my dad’s heart to even think about the holidays as the events surrounding him and the very existence of survival for his family weighed on his mind. I was too young for this and my thoughts were about Christmas and the things that a boy dreams about. I was beginning to worry about the tree. Santa would not know where to leave me a present without a Christmas tree. I was pestering Mom about it. Little did I know that there was a chance there would be no tree. She would simply tell me it wasn’t Christmas yet. Christmas Eve day came and there was no tree when I left for my short half day of school. “Mom, are we getting a tree?” I asked before I left. “We’ll see,” she replied. When I came home from school, there it was. A beautiful GOLD tree—at least, I

thought it was a tree. It sort of looked like a tree. Maybe it was a sort of bush. I cautiously approached it. It was a beautiful gold tree with lights and popcorn but not much for branches. As I gazed in amazement at it, Mom asked if I liked the tree. “It’s beautiful,” I replied. “But what is it?” “It is our Christmas tree,” she explained. “Ah, Mom, I don’t think it is a tree.” She said it was like from the olden days: When there were no trees, settlers had to improvise. So, she got a tumble weed and some paint she had found in the town dump and sprayed it. That was fine by me. She seemed happy and I was too.

That evening, I was anxious to go to bed so Santa would hurry up and come. As I went to sleep, I kept hearing noises on the rooftop. Suddenly, I was awake, and I was sure reindeer were on the roof. I scurried down the steps, and through the dim light I saw my mom sitting in the rocking chair sewing. “What is it? “she asked. “I heard Santa,” I replied. “No, it’s too early, he won’t be here till much later, go back to bed.” It was with that assurance that I scrambled back to bed knowing that he would be there. I awoke before my dad yelled up at me and rolled down the steps as fast as I could. When I gazed at the tree, I could see a ragged doll with a note to Cindy, my sister, BUT that was all. There was nothing for me. Tears welled up. I could not help it as they rolled down my cheeks. Why would Cindy get something but not me? I saw my mom coming out of the bedroom but I turned away so she would not see me. “What’s the matter son?” “Santa didn’t come,” I sniffled. “He forgot me.” “Come to the front door with me,” she said. As she opened the door she said, “Look.” I looked but did not see anything. “In the corner,” she said. “It’s Old Paint.” There it was. A beautiful stick horse with twine for his reins. All my own! “Can I ride it now?” I asked. “Not in the house” she said, “but outside.” “While I do my chores,” I said. “Yes, while you do the chores.” So, there it was, and I was the happiest boy ever. I rode my stick horse all over

the barnyard and come spring I ran in the Kentucky Derby with Old Paint and we won. Old Paint and I outfoxed the bad guys and were always able to escape any ambushes and robbers. Of course, I had to make my sister a stick horse so she could race against me, but nothing was as fast or good as Old Paint.

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Christmases come and go, and I am asked by my children, What was your favorite Christmas? and I tell them about Old Paint. With disbelief, they listen but just aren’t sure. I called my mom and asked if she would do me a favor and find tumbleweed and make it like when I was a boy. Sure enough, when I came home to visit her and opened the door, there it was. Now my children believe.

Mom and Dad have ed on but they filled in the blanks of our hardship in those days and the Christmas that just about never happened. In times of difficulty came the best Christmas I can and Old Paint.

CHAPTER 5

I Come to the Garden

Sometimes I was hungry, but I didn’t know That’s the way it was and how life goes I was a busy boy trying to learn and grow up Just never had time to worry and what’s for sup Pulling weeds doing chores going to school along the way Finding how to fly kites hunting staying busy every day Learning discipline and about work and when to play And when I got out of line, I found out my dad would have his say His favorite line was from the bottom up to the top of my head My rear would burn as I felt what he said For a while I would hurt, and I’d mope and be sad It was hard lessons I learned about love from my dad That how it was then, and I wasn’t alone Life could be tough nearby my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

I never knew, as a young boy, but my dad had tried running a saw mill up by where my mom’s mother lived, with no success. The only trees that grew in the Sandhills at that time were cottonwoods and a few cedars. The cottonwood was only good for bridge planks and barn beams since they would dry out twisted. There wasn’t any income except for the cream and eggs we sold to the local store. The furs we got from trapping helped. Dad and I would go on coon hunts at night and we’d sell their furs in the sp ring. In the spring when the cows dried up, it was very difficult for Mom and Dad. I eating corn meal mush for breakfast and at night Mom would take the leftover corn meal mush and fry it for supper. Just as I was about to complain as kids do, the rhubarb would be up, and she would boil that and pour it over the corn meal mush. I must have had enough to eat since whenever I ed my plate, Dad would say I already had plenty. I can’t feeling hungry enough to feel bad or sickly. Mom tried making meals from the various animals we would trap. She tried beaver and raccoon and other things; the origins of which were not revealed to me. Wild game that was harvested had a place at the table. Standard fare in the fall and winter consisted of pheasants, quail, grouse, rabbit, and squirrel. After the sawmill, Dad was able to get work helping build the courthouse up by Grandma’s in Taylor. That helped get him jump-started into farming some land from his brother-in-law and sister (my aunt and uncle). In between he introduced my sister and me to the art of gardening. It was a big garden. We cut potatoes on Good Friday and planted them. It was cold and windy, and I know I was not real excited about what we were doing. I was too young to understand the rewards that went with planting potatoes. I also didn’t understand the problems that went with gardening—mainly pulling weeds. Dad would give us instructions and we were on our own. Those rows looked a mile long. The weeds had roots that reached way down in the ground and we were young enough that it was a real tussle to get them out. I recall his disappointment with our achievements when he came home, and there was a long lecture and some advice on what would happen if more progress was not made. I can still smell that ground, which was mostly sand and, for the most part, actually loose. It was still an effort to pull weeds. Many were thorny. It was hot

and sticky and there were bugs of all kinds. Some were biting, like the flies and mosquitos and gnats that flew around my eyes. On my hands and knees, I slowly made progress. Little did I know that I was developing a deep bond with nature itself that would lead to a lifelong love affair with gardening. I would have told you never in a hundred years was I doing this. That sweet smell of clover growing nearby and the interesting texture of the soil between my fingers was winning me over. We made just enough progress that we avoided the woodshed. This was a time when I was becoming aware of my environment and beginning to feel comfortable. I was like a new puppy and into everything. The daily chores that were given to me gave me structure and discipline that would be an asset in life. I had the animals on the farm and my own dog. There was a pasture divided by a creek which emptied into a pond. There was a meadow by the railroad tracks and across the meadow another larger meadow and the river. I was too young to go across the tracks but there were plenty of exciting adventures waiting for me and things to discover. Dad always found things for me to do. Cleaning barns and chicken houses and taking care of animals occupied a good share of my time. The barn where we milked the cows needed to be cleaned every day. In the winter, shoveling cow dung made for a big pile near the barn door where the cows came in. In the spring, I would be tasked to move the pile to the garden with my wheelbarrow. A side benefit of the manure pile is that it made a good place to get fishing worms and grubs. We always had plenty of bait to go fishing when the time came. Plus, being next to the river, we could always net some minnows and a frog or two. Cleaning the chicken house led me to the discovery of rats and mice and other types of varmints. There were all kinds of birds. Barn swallows liked to dive at me while I worked away. They were pretty to me and I realized that they had little ones in the nest on the side of the rafters and of course I liked to check them out (to the annoyance of the parents). There was a mulberry tree near the chicken coop, and I could never resist them. My hands and mouth would give me away as to what I had been doing since the evidence of the berries was all over my hands and face. Mulberries and their juice stain the hands and face and is hard to wash off. I still like the sweet taste of mulberries, especially after a rainy night. It makes them plump and juicy. I discovered some newborn kittens which was something my dad was not excited about. They were hidden in the barn and although they were cute to me,

cats and Dad didn’t go together, although he would allow me some leeway with them.

#

My grade school teacher, Mrs. Bartu, was a no nonsense teacher who demanded respect. She kept things interesting and under control. We had several events during the school year that were fun. In the spring, we had a kite-flying contest for the highest kite and the one that flew the farthest away. There was also an award for best decorated and best constructed. I had an old magazine (Boys Life) that described how a kite was made in the Spanish- American War and used to take pictures of the enemy. The kite had to be stable and made a certain way. It required sticks that were bent to a certain standard and covered with loose paper. It had no tail. The tricky part was bending the stick without breaking it. I couldn’t get it to work and so Dad gave it a whirl. He broke the first couple of sticks until he managed to get the right bow in it. It seemed a little off kilter when I put the paper on it since the paper was to be loose. I named my design Sputnik, since that was in the news at the time. Like most days in March, it was very windy and cool the day of the contest. My kite had already won a ribbon for best decoration, but the construction was graded as “poor” due to the very loose paper. As we began to let our kites loose most of them failed or broke right away due to the very brisk wind that day. However, it was with little effort that mine glided into the sky. I didn’t have to do anything except let the string out. It was just as the magazine said and sat still in the sky. The wind was so strong that day, that all other kites crashed or never got off the ground. Needless to say, I won the contest. The other contest that spring was a marble event. We would draw a circle in the dirt and put five marbles in it and, using our other marble, would hit a marble in the circle and knock it out until they were all out. The winner was the one with the most marbles. This event went on for a few days and I was very excited to make it to the championship and then win. The event and headline made the Comstock news. I still have a copy. (Never mind that there wasn’t a lot of news in a small town.)

In the springtime, we would have baby chicks. We had an incubator and would place several eggs in it and wait for them to hatch. They were so cute when they would hatch. My sister and I loved to play with them. Dad had a light bulb hung from a cardboard lid and a piece of newspaper for them to stand on in a cardboard box for the first few days. When he felt they were strong enough, they were moved to a shed with a bigger light bulb to keep them warm at night. They would grow quickly and the next thing you knew it would be the 4th of July. Then we would gather several of the ones that were roosters and chop off their heads. It was a strange sight watching them hop all over with no head. We would then dip them in a steaming bucket of scalding hot water and pull off the feathers. I never liked the smell of wet chicken feathers. We would place their bodies over an open fire to sear off the pin feathers and then cut them open and clean out the insides. The young chickens were called fryers. We would take some of the layers (older hens held over from the previous year) and butcher them and they were called boilers. Occasionally a duck or two and sometimes even a goose would be included. We had moved on from the famine of the spring to the bounty of the summer where there was plenty to eat. I the tadpoles, toads, frogs, and snails by the creek. Nearby were the red- winged blackbirds that were also a bit crabby when I was around since they had young ones in the area. They liked to nest in the cat tails in the ditch. My favorite were robins and their nests. Snakes slithered in and out of their hiding places. Often, I would find them when I was cleaning out the chicken houses and barn. There were newborns all over the place. I would uncover baby mice and rats and rabbits as well as the various bird nests. I would see young pheasants along the roadsides and in the ditches. The pheasants would cross south of our home, coming from the river and across our land and the road to the cornfields on the east of us. In the evening, we would watch them cross back to the river. At night I would gaze at the stars and marvel at the dome above me. There were lightning bugs to catch in a jar, the hoot of an owl, and the cry of a coyote when I sat still long enough to hear. When the full moon shone, it seemed almost daylight at times and the moon felt like it was just an arm’s length away. These were good times for me.

When the school year had ended and we were dismissed for the summer, Dad would shave my head or, when I got older, give me a mohawk for the summer. Dad and Mom liked that we were some help in the garden and it helped me learn about plants and that what we were growing would be what we ate. Mom liked to can what we grew and that would be stored in the cellar and available for us in the winter. Dad made a potato cellar for us to put the potatoes in when they were harvested, and we would have potatoes to eat in the wintertime. If any were still left after the winter, we could use the remainder for seed potatoes to plant in the spring. As the summer wore on, I was to learn about irrigating the fields. There was this big tube in the river and a tractor standing with the motor running which was pulling water from the river through the tube and into a ditch. This ditch ran along the end of the rows and we would divert the water to whatever plants (corn) needed it. The problem was that the soil was sandy and loose so there would be wash outs and they needed to be plugged. The solution was for me to lay down in the break and Mom and Dad would dig furiously and throw dirt on top of me until they could get the break plugged. When I protested, Dad would throw me down and start throwing dirt over me. There wasn’t time for an explanation. I didn’t catch on initially and so this event troubled me and took me a long time to overcome. At the time, it felt as though I was being drowned and my life meant nothing. It wasn’t true but I didn’t understand the situation. Obviously, I overcame the fear of being tossed into the water break, but I never cared for this procedure of plugging breaks. The tube that extended into the river had to be moved every so often as it would settle and fill with sand. One day Dad was working on it and suddenly yelled and jumped out of the river. He grabbed the spade and jumped back in the river and began stabbing furiously. I couldn’t figure out what was happening. Finally, he threw out a turtle. A snapping turtle had bit him, and he exacted his revenge. I suppose he was lucky to still have a toe. This same tube would one day wrench his back and cause him trouble for an extended period of time. I was learning it wasn’t always easy being a farmer and there could be tough times. I was too young to understand that the summer was so hot and dry that there wasn’t enough water to keep up the crops. At harvest time the returns were skimpy. My life was about fireflies, playing Cowboys and Indians, or good guys and bad

guys, my dog, animals, and chores. The garden was one of my jobs and it was sheer torment. When dad was out of sight my imagination would set in and I would wander off. There were frogs and birds and lots of stuff to discover. Mom would try and get me back on track with a treat like Kool-Aid. She was always there for me and had a comion for letting me be what boys are about. She knew that I had work to do but she would also allow me to play. After a hot summer it was time for school again. There was the discovery of a shorter age to school. A tree branch that had fallen across the creek, but with one end still secured, was perfect for scurrying across. We could save some time by going directly east to the road that ran south out of town and shorten our trip to school by a few blocks. It did involve crossing two barbed-wire fences, but Dad made us a ladder to use at the first fence. This continued to be our age to and from school but not without peril. On rainy days the log would be slippery and every so often, my foot would slip enough to fill my shoe with water. The barbed wire would snag my clothes much to Mom’s chagrin, which would require a patch. I often was in too big of a hurry to climb the ladder and it was faster to slip through the two fences without stopping. We added to our collection of animals and now had rabbits. Dad made some cages and we raised rabbits. I soon learned not to get too attached to them since they were a food staple just like the chickens. Fall was the time when the cows had newborn calves which meant extra work to set up pens and have fresh bedding for them. I would learn that despite all that we did sometimes the newborns would not make it. It was always heartbreaking to lose one and pretty deflating for Dad and Mom, too.

CHAPTER 6

Coon Hunting

I sit with my dad in our old pickup in the pale moon light Listening for the hounds trailing a coon on a cool evening night Waiting for the barks that they have it up a tree Then hurrying off to where they’re at before it gets free We shine the light and I can feel my heart pound Now we have it and the dogs pounce on it when it hits the ground The hounds are happy as I load them up and hear them groan They want to be loose and back the on the trail to hunt and roam We are pleased and ready to take our prize we won on our own And head on back to our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

F all was the time to go coon hunting. We had several dogs, usually a combination of old with young. The mother of the brood was Cora, and two old timers, Pat and Spec, were the leaders. Pat was a favorite, black and tan, and typical coon hound. Spec was sort of an oddity as he had speckled spots on a white coat that stood out from the rest of the g roup.

I going with Dad, who would drive to a favored spot and release the dogs to begin the hunt. We would generally go to an area across the river and south a few miles to a place near Oak Grove. There was a creek that ran into the river and this was usually a good spot. Dad and I would sit in the truck and listen to the hounds as they tracked their prey. Sometimes we would move to hear them better, and since Dad knew the area he could tell about where they were. Then when the dogs would tree the coon he would hurry to the spot and use a flashlight to shine up the tree to spot the coon. When we spotted him, Dad would take his .22 and shoot it. When it fell to the ground the dogs would pounce on it. Dad taught me to never climb a tree with a pack of coon hounds around since anything that fell to the ground would be killed.

If we had a successful hunt, we would round up the dogs and take the coon home to skin and feed the carcass to the chickens. The fur would be saved until the fur trader came by and paid us for it. We could get twenty-five cents for muskrat furs. Raccoon furs would fetch five to ten dollars. Beaver pelts were about twenty dollars, depending on size and condition. The highest and most profitable were mink, which were thirty dollars per pelt or more if in really good condition. When we were hunting, more often than not, we would come up empty. We would gather up the younger dogs as they would tire out and give up the chase. Cora, the mother, was generally the first to quit and she would encourage the pups to come with her and we would pick them up. Pat and Spec would just continue on and we couldn’t get them to give up so we would just go home. The next day or two they would show up looking terrible and smelling bad. Oftentimes, they had run into skunks and nobody could stand to be around them. It would take them two or three days to get back to normal and ready to go again. Sometimes a farmer would stop by or call Dad and tell him the dogs were hanging out down by their place and he would go down and pick them up. They were old guard as far as coon hounds go and they showed the scars of their trade. Their long ears had splits in them and their noses had scars from the battles they fought. One night while we were out hunting, they treed a coon and it was quite a long trek out into a pasture and we had to long walk to get there. Dad would always hurry, but it was hard for me to keep up. If we didn’t get there fast enough the coon would find an escape route and the chase would be on again. Spec was different than most dogs as he would climb the tree if he was able and sure enough, he was up the tree. However, one time, before we could get to the tree he fell or tried to jump and when he hit the ground it was all over. The rest of the pack were on him and before we could save him it was too late. I tried to carry him back, but he was too heavy, so Dad carried him, but he was gone. I saw firsthand what Dad had said about climbing trees while coon hunting, and now we had lost one of our favorite dogs. Another night the dogs had tracked a coon far down the river to what Dad called the narrows. We had to walk a long while and came to a narrow concrete that ed over the river. As he started to cross, he told me not to look down. There was no railing and I followed but I had to see how far down it was. It was

a LONG way down and with the current ing downstream it made me dizzy, but I was able to refocus and made it across. Once across I told Dad I couldn’t do that again. I don’t how we did it, but I never crossed that way again. I was to lose another dog. Butch, a black and white rat terrier, would chase cars as they would leave our lane or the driveway to our home. One day, a young man visited hoping to see one of my uncles who would stay with us from time to time. As he left, Butch got under the car and dashed out only to be run over. I was devastated. Dad had got me Butch, when we lived on Bell Mountain. I was scared of the dark and afraid of sleeping in the shed so Dad had brought me Butch so it would not be so hard to get me too sleep there. Butch was my constant companion and protector. He looked after me in the good and bad times and slept with me in the attic when we moved to Comstock. He would sleep at my feet when I went to bed, but by morning, he would be on my pillow sleeping. It was a tough time for me when he died, and I was in a state of depression without him. A few nights later, Dad came up to me in the attic carrying a little black Labrador puppy. I named him King (his full name was King Kazan) since my uncle had a dog named Duke and I felt a king was superior. I had just recently finished a book called, Kazan – Wolf Dog of the North. I would, from this time on, always have a Labrador in my life. Just like Butch before him he was always with me and slept with me. Seemed that life would deal me a blow and then give back to me. We did more coon hunting that fall. A farmer, Andy, who lived west of town and north of the road leading out of town, would get together with Dad and me. I would sit in the back seat and listen to them talk. Andy rolled his cigarettes like Dad and they would smoke and chat. When they lost the sound of the dogs, they would let me out and see if I could tell what direction they were headed. I one time when we could hear they were over by Andy’s creek where there was a beaver dam, so we headed over there. The barks were a bit muffled and we learned they had chased their prey into a hole. Dad saw a hole nearby so he had me sit with my feet in it so the coon couldn’t come out there. The dogs were digging and barking and making a fuss and I was sitting about thirty yards away worrying that a coon would run up my leg. This wasn’t

something I had done before. Then about the time I glanced back to see what was going on, here came a raccoon out of another hole about ten yards from me. I yelled, but the dogs were making so much noise that they couldn’t hear me. Then came another raccoon and yet another. I believe there were seven before I could move and tell them what was happening. It was unbelievable to me. Worse yet, they all made their escape. So close and no reward. Dad hunted with the school coach, too. They even went out on school nights and sometimes came home in the early morning hours. I wasn’t allowed out on school nights. The dogs were getting a good workout and they were often stiff and sore in the morning. We had some young ones and even they would be tired. It was a good fall for hunting and though we came up empty a lot, we also had more success than in the past. One time we had a coon holed up on the side of a hill just west of town and the dogs were trying to get at it but instead of one at a time they were trying to enter the hole two and three abreast. The coon apparently was not in very far and they were excited. I decided to grab one of the dogs by the tail and with all my strength I tried to pull him back and about the same time the coon decided to exit and all of us went tumbling down the side of the hill, but good fortune smiled on me that day as they tumbled to the side and all I got was a few sandburs for my effort. Another time just south of the hill incident, the dogs had some coons cornered in an old rundown vacant house. The back of the house was built into a bank and we could walk onto the roof and look down the chimney and could see they were in there. Dad decided to go to the basement with the idea that I would throw bricks down the chimney and he hoped to get them to come out in the basement. The plan worked, but it took so long that the dogs took off on a trail where some of the other coons had escaped, leaving only our smallest hound, the one we called Princess, behind. I heard a lot of yelling, so I ran down to the basement and sure enough there was a big racoon, but Princess was having a hard time keeping it under control. It would get away from her and try to climb on Dad who was beating it back with a stick. All I could do was watch in amazement. Together, Dad and Princess finally gained control and won the battle. Dad was exhausted and too tired out to continue so we gathered up our prize, called in the

younger dogs, and went home.

CHAPTER 7

The Harvest

We do our work and wipe the sweat from our brow Doing our chores and surviving somehow The sweet smell of the freshly mowed meadow hay Reminds us why we like to do it our way We do our labor in the heat, cold snow, or rain that pours and after work is done head home to do the chores Though tired from working our fingers to the bone Nearby on our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

I believe fall is my favorite time of the year: The hills have an odor of sweetness. The cooler days breathe freshness. The different shades of color are breathtaking. The frosty mornings have removed most of the pests that have pestered me all summer. At night the stars are much brighter. The harvest moon coming into view feels like I can just climb over one more hill and touch it. Those were precious nights that I enjoyed sitting on a hillside taking it all in while coon hunting with my dad. One fall I was able to participate in my first and only harvest of oats. Several

men gathered and we shocked oats and threw it in this machine with long conveyor belts. It was dusty and dirty but fun to work with so many other hands. They were neighbors and the event was well attended. As a young boy, I felt as if I was at a county fair. There was excitement in the air. Everyone seemed to know what to do and before I could take it all in, it was over. The day flew by and then they were gone. This was Art Durham’s place. He lived by himself down by Oak Grove. This is where a creek south of his place ran into the Middle Loup River. He lived in a two-story frame house that hadn’t been painted in years. He had a barn and a few outbuildings. His location was a favorite of ours for hunting and trapping. One day shortly after the harvest, Dad left me with Art to go do something else. Art was going into town and I was to go in with him. Before we started, he had me go in with him while he poured coffee into a tin can with the lid still attached to it but half open. He was a pleasant old man and wore the standard bib overhauls and flannel shirt. His kitchen was warmed from the pot belly stove. The kitchen had a water hand pump like the one we had at home and a table between the rear door and bedroom. Even though it was daylight, the room was dim. One entryway had a blanket for a door that kept the cold away. The other room was most likely the living room, but it was filled with big empty cardboard boxes that were dusty and appeared to have been there a long time. The house smelled musty and dusty, sort of like when you wear the same clothes all the time. I never got to see the rest of the house and it was just as well as it appeared that it was just like the living room; empty with boxes and dust. As Art drank from the tin can, he made small talk with me and reminded me how I was fortunate to have a good dad. I could tell by his weathered face and demeanor that he was a lot older than my dad. He reminded me of my grandpa and though it wasn’t said, they probably knew each other from earlier years. We went outside to the wagon where he had some sacks of grain. Two horses were hitched to the wagon. We climbed up onto the seat and he threw a blanket across our laps and we rode into town. It was a brisk day with a cold north wind that we rode into the first few miles before turning east toward town; a trip of maybe six or seven miles altogether. As Art pulled into town by the feed store, I thanked Art for the lift into town as I left him and walked on home, proud to ride a wagon pulled by a team of horses. Just like a real cowboy.

CHAPTER 8

Uncle Heck

The Sandhills wind is always there to have its say Of its fury and love that sends us along our way The hills of meadowlarks that sing the alluring tune And the pheasant spreads its wing and tells us soon Time to rise or go to bed and so we head onward home But we are not alone as the coyote cry and the cattle roam Nearby on our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

A lthough I was a cowboy in my mind, riding horses was a tricky venture. Old Paint was best for me. So mewhere though, a white pony showed up. I never was told where or how he got there or whose horse he was. He was a Shetland pony but difficult to get close to and even harder to ride. Whenever I would ride him, it would buck and throw me for a loop. His name was Horse and though I was fond of him, he wasn’t fond of me. Time and again I would go for a ride only to end up on the ground—sometimes without a very good landing. My uncles would laugh and pick me up and I would have another go at it until I would land hard enough to take the wind out of my sails. To them it was all fun but to me it was discouragement. Horse had a way of getting out and finally, one day, he was gone. Dad either got rid of him because he was tired of chasing him back into

the pasture or because he thought I would end up with a busted arm or whatever. He never said. With the turn of the New Year we settled into our routine. We spent cold winter nights after the chores were done skinning hides that were brought in from trapping and putting them on stretchers. Sometimes while skinning them, blood would show up on the hide and I would begin to cry that I had been cut by the skinning knife. Dad would convince me it was the animal’s blood and not mine and I would keep helping him until the hide was off and then see it was really me that had been cut on the finger. He would laugh and put some salve on my finger and I was good to go again. Some nights, after chores, Dad would play checkers with me. I was just learning and so it wasn’t hard for me to lose. On weekends, Dad would take me hunting. When I was too young for a gun, I just went along and helped if I could. It was a great experience when I finally got to carry a shotgun—an old 20-gauge bolt action, one shot only. I had to be careful and frugal if I was to get anything. I usually carried just three or four shells with me when hunting. Once they were spent, I was done and went home with whatever I got. I cleaned my game before going in the house and then it was Mom’s turn and she would make it taste the best—she always did. Eventually, Dad installed an oil burner in the living room. This made it easier during the cold nights to stay together and listen to the radio. Sometimes Mom would get a tub out and have my sister and me take baths. Like most boys, it was something I could do without. There was a reward though, since Mom would take us to a picture show. The first ones I recall were in Comstock and we would walk to town (only a few blocks), and see the shows there. After the last picture show in Comstock, we had to drive to Sargent, eight miles away, to see one. The ones we saw were mainly Cowboys and Indians movies and that was fine by me. I also spent a lot of evenings in the garage where I would stand and hand Dad wrenches while he repaired machinery. I would complain about being cold and wanting to go inside, but I knew my limits with him and was careful not to cross the line. I think my dad thought I might have an interest in fixing things like him, but this was not an aptitude I would acquire, much to Dad’s disappointment I’m sure. Although he only went to school through the eighth grade, he was a marvel at building and fixing things. I was a cowboy and riding my stick horse was what I

liked to do. The old area we called a garage, smelled of rodent droppings and spoiled grain, mixed with the grease, oil, and gasoline from the tractor Dad was working on. He would have me wash some of the parts in gasoline and keep the wrenches picked up and handed to him when he asked for them. I would fidget and was generally cold and impatient. He would try to explain what he was doing, but it was all Greek to me and uninteresting. That winter we had one of our great uncles move in and spend the winter with us. Uncle Heck (his real name was Claude) was a veteran of the SpanishAmerican War as well as WWI. He tried to enlist for WWII but was turned down. I don’t know what else he did other than he was a professional gambler. This might for him staying with us from time to time as this was a profession of highs and lows; mainly lows. Uncle Heck had an injury from a fall off a horse that limited his range of motion, so he could only raise his arms part way which made it a bit risky when eating. He was a tall man of good stature. He was mostly bald and hard of hearing by the time he stayed with us. He was good to me and my sister and would occasionally bring us black licorice from the store, which was always a welcome treat. About this time of my life, when I was ten years old, I began to become interested in sports. My Uncle Heck had introduced me to boxing. He liked to listen to the boxing matches on the radio and got me interested in that. I never knew much about boxing, but it became exciting for me to hear the bouts on the radio and I became a fan. One time when Archie Moore was fighting Rocky Marciano, Uncle Heck asked if I wanted to place a wager on the fight. I found a quarter somewhere and said I would bet on Archie Moore. It was with a good deal of excitement that I listened to the fight unfold. Archie Moore knocked down Marciano and it appeared I might win, but in the end, it wasn’t to be. Afterward, my Dad took me aside and warned me that it would be a good idea not to bet with Uncle Heck anymore. So that was the end of my gambling career. Just as well, as I never had any money anyway. One of the moments I came when Uncle Heck had to babysit me and my sister, while Mom and Dad traveled out of the state for a funeral. They had purchased a gas range only a few weeks before and this would prove to be a challenge for us to operate. We were trying to light the oven and could not get it

to come on. I noticed there were three holes in the bottom so I thought we could light a newspaper and stick a flame down each hole to get it going. It never occurred to us that the gas was on. When Uncle Heck placed the flaming newspaper down one of the holes it went off like a bomb. I saw it lift the stove off the floor a couple of inches. Uncle Heck turned to me looking like one of those cartoon characters, holding this piece of charred newspaper in his hand, with black smudge marks on his face, complete with singed eyebrows. We decided to just turn the stove off and leave well enough alone. Years later after he had ed away, we somehow ended up with Uncle Heck’s trunk which included some interesting letters from his past. At the turn of the century, he would correspond with his sister (my grandmother) and tell her of his gambling exploits. His letters would reveal what he thought he could take from certain individuals playing cards. He would say that he knew a doctor from Broken Bow that he thought would be good for a hundred dollars. He would go on to outline others and how much he believed he could get from them. He would enclose money in these letters to my grandmother and his other sisters, so he was generous when he was winning. In his trunk were cufflinks with mirrors and rings with tacks used for marking cards. He was a professional gambler, and these were his tools of his trade. Made me wonder how he lived for so long. He must have been good at what he did. When he had come to our place to stay, he was in poor health and up in years. He still liked to gamble on different events, but I believe his card-playing days were over. I knew he would bet on boxing matches and was a huge Yankees fan and gambled on baseball. He most likely did every form of gambling available: horse racing, football, etc. I guess it was in his blood.

CHAPTER 9

Other Uncles

So it is and along the way we watch the birds in flight Their large v formations against the sky so bright And as the evening sun goes down they hunt for rest on the ground Against a backdrop of scarlet yellow and haze abound You listen to the river running and take in the calm and the sound Of the wildlife around you making their way to nighttime nests Their day is complete and now it is time for rest Another day done and memories sown Nearby our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

T hat spring, Dad butchered all the rabbits and my rabbit days were done. As it was, he had other ideas for the place where we kept the rabbits. They had been located on a slope on the east side of the house between the house and the creek. He took down the cages and marked out an area for me to dig, which seemed to take forever—and as it turned out was very deep too. This was the beginning of something I was to do over and over and become good at it; digging and more digging. I wasn’t that proficient yet, so I had help—a younger brother of Mom’s,

who would stay with us sometimes—helped as well as Dad. What I didn’t know was that Dad was also digging laterals for an indoor toilet. He transferred the hallway going up to the attic into a bathroom. It was pretty handy for me and sure beat running outside, especially in the winter. I figured that we pretty much had it all with that addition to the home. Mom’s brother’s name was Jerry, but like all the kin, he had another name: Ike. Everyone in this era had a nickname and a given name. The nickname generally was given to someone when they were young and was the name that everyone would call you. Ike was only about eight years older than me and though he was one of my favorite uncles, he would torment me to no end. Just when I could take no more, he would help me and was always there to defend me. Once when we were at the grandparents’ house in Taylor just outside of town, Grandma had made some bread and sprinkled cinnamon on it. I was sent outside to fetch a bucket of water from the pump and while I was out there, Ike and his younger brother Bruce (my only uncle without another name), sprinkled hot pepper on my slice. When I ate it, I could not breathe and, for whatever reason, stuck my head in the pail of water. I don’t know why but I felt I was going to die. I finally caught my breath, but the event would have consequences as my grandpa grabbed the two uncles and headed to the woodshed with them. It was a bit before they would have anything to do with me so it must have been severe. A little later, Ike came to stay with us. He was needing a change of pace and sought refuge with us. The short time he stayed was good for me as he helped with the chores and helped my Dad, too. However, he had bigger plans as sometime before school was out, he ed the Marine Corps and headed off to boot camp. He left with my favorite tricycle tied up high in a tree. That was his going away present for me. I did miss him.

#

After school was out and my head was shaved, it was back to the garden. As always, Dad had planted potatoes on Good Friday, and it was important to stay ahead of the weeds. My sister Cindy and I were a little older and a bit better at

weeding, though still unenthusiastic gardeners. At least we would make it to the end of the rows sometimes. Mom would encourage us and give us a Kool-Aid break. We also had another treat: Somewhere they had come up with an ice cream bucket. Mom would get the stuff ready in a can and we would place it in the bucket and put rock salt around it to keep it cold and then begin to turn the crank. The knob to hold the crank in one place was broken so one of us would put a gunny sack on top of the bucket and sit on it to keep it in place while the other would turn the crank, which went on forever. When one tired we would trade places and the other would turn and turn. Eventually, it would begin to become hard and our strength would wane, and Mom would help finish up. The results were homemade ice cream so delicious that I can still taste it now. It was the best of times when we made ice cream. Another similar chore involved butter but without the excitement. Mom put cream in a glass container with paddles and we would turn it until it became hard, making a ball of butter. My shoulders would ache, and I would complain. I still feel it in my shoulder blades today. The reward of course was a ball of butter that Mom put salt on. We enjoyed putting it on our bread and pancakes. My birthday was June 15, two days after my Mom’s. This meant that Mom would make a cake, generally chocolate was the flavor, with chocolate icing. We sometimes had it with the ice cream we made. That was the celebration and was fine with me. I loved chocolate cake. One year, we received word that Ike had been in an automobile accident on my birthday and was in critical condition. I wasn’t too sure—didn’t understand the gravity—and wasn’t told much anyhow. It turned out that he would survive but he had been thrown from a car he was riding in and broke his neck. He was paralyzed from the neck down. I didn’t really comprehend it, but it would eventually change my life.

CHAPTER 10

Bigger Britches

It is late to bed and early to rise That’s the way it is if we are to survive We are greeted each day to enjoy Mother Nature’s sky To enjoy the beauty of her canvas and is the reason why That we do our labor and give no ground And we would never give this up to move to the town We rather die here coming or going Nearby my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

T hat summer was pretty much like the previous: Hot and dry. Mom and Dad toiled with the crops on Dad’s sister’s land, but with the same results. Besides the irrigating that I was beginning to get the hang of, we also did some haying. I always liked haying. The sweet smell of the meadows and hay fields lingered with me and made it easier to daydream, plus, there was more wildlife to see. It could be sweaty and dusty and itchy but there was more to like than dis like. Picking up baled hay was hard for me at this age, so the bales had to be dry and light for me. Mostly I would drive the tractor slowly and Dad did most of the

lifting. I would give it a try but pooped out quickly. The bales were rectangular in shape and some would hold more moisture and would be heavier than others. My job was to throw them on the wagon to be stacked. Sometimes the heavy bales would weigh more than me and it was a struggle for me to get them off the ground, let alone throw them on the wagon. Once we had a wagon full of bales, we would take them home and unload and restack them. We used the bales to feed the cows with. They were also good for bedding for newborn calves and pigs as well as in the hen house for the chickens to lay their eggs. They were good for insulation and if we had something that needed to be protected from the cold, such as a water pump or spigot, we could use them for that. We also had loose hay stacked by the fence east of the barn. The moment I got home from school I would feed the cattle the loose hay. In the fall and early spring, stacked hay would become a favorite of mine as I would climb on top and watch the birds at sunset fly over the river. Nothing was as beautiful and the serenity was relaxing. The waterfowl would fly south for the winter. High above, you could see their V formation, and below that would be others breaking formation and searching for a favorable location to land, and still lower were those who were coming in for a landing. The pheasants would be moving across the meadows into the willows and thickets along the banks of the river. All this against the backdrop of a sunset in various shades of red and wispy clouds highlighted by the rays of the sinking sun. Large groups of blackbirds would dot the sky as well. The evening hour was always peaceful and quiet. In the winter I would distribute the hay to the cows by digging into the bank of the haystack, enlarging hole-like caves as I went. The cattle would munch on the hay as I went down the fence distributing the hay. Those holes in the stack offered protection in the winter from the north winds and were good to warm yourself up in. I could hay the cows and on clear, frosty mornings stop for a rest inside these holes and take the chill off. Outside by the barn near the driveway, we had a large square stack of hay bales several rows high. I can’t how they came to be since I was not involved in putting them there. The bales were stacked about fifteen feet high. I learned that if you grabbed hold of the twine that held the bales together, you could climb up the face of the baled hay until you got on top and then let yourself down the same way. I would go up in the middle where it seemed the

safest and hide from my sister when we were playing. She could never figure out where I disappeared to and I would giggle and watch as she searched for me. One day I was teasing her, and I cut it too close. I didn’t have time to climb up the middle part of the stack, so I scampered up the corner of the bales. When I reached the top bale to pull myself up, it became dislodged and I became air borne. It was a frightful height for me to begin with and all I could think on the way down was I was going to die. But as luck would have it, I stuck the landing and marveled at my good fortune. However, it was short lived—in my elation, I forgot a bale was also coming down, and that’s all I . I woke up lying on the bed near the kitchen with a wet washcloth on my neck. I had been out for about five hours. They said I walked a short distance toward the house in a daze as Cindy and my Mom asked me what happened. It was late enough that everyone was eating and the chores had been done. My first thought was that I was in trouble for not doing the chores, but the injury was significant enough to get a . Climbing the bales would be a thing of the past. I was over that escapade. We had some alfalfa that we would cut and feed to the cattle. This also presented some problems as we had a cow, Nellie, that couldn’t resist alfalfa. We were forever chasing her out of the field, but she would just get back in. Dad knew if we didn’t do something that it would kill her. Cows would become bloated from the gas buildup inside them from eating too much alfalfa and they would fall over and die. Alfalfa to cows is like sweets to humans—they can’t resist eating it. Nellie had a favorite spot where she would jump the fence, so Dad took out his shotgun and after I chased her back into the pasture, she ran right back to that spot to jump over again. This time he was ready for her and as she began to jump, he let her have it; his aim was true and right on, as he shot her in the rear. There was a loud grunt from her, but she completed her jump and I went back out and chased her back again. However, she wasn’t through and immediately ran over to the fence again. Dad said it might just do her in if he shot again and as he loaded up Nellie stopped, looked back, and turned around and walked away to everyone’s relief. She decided her fence-jumping days were over. We had another instance where a yearling had manure stuck to her tail and it was to the point where it was rotting her tail off. Dad solved this matter by grabbing her tail and cutting it off. Now we had a bob-tailed cow. A few weeks later, the yearling became foundered. We discovered her lying on her side with her sides

looking as if they were ready to explode. After reviewing the situation, Dad took out his pocketknife and felt where her hip bone was, calculated just a few inches from that spot and stuck her with the knife. Gas shot out of her like a punctured balloon. After a few minutes, she began to move and got to her feet. She appeared no worse for the plight she had just been in.

CHAPTER 11

Halloween

The days become short and the nights get long And as you work you break into the familiar song Of “there is no place like Nebraska” and you know it won’t be long Till the “big Red” run from the tunnel and into view The band plays on, the crowd cheers and waits for the referees queue To begin the game and the ball is in the air The cheer leaders yell the fans scream it is almost too much to bear But win or lose it is great to be a husker and belong Nearby our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

I was beginning to have interest in football. When I went to the local football games I was hooked, although I didn’t understand why they ran from side to side and when they were closer to the one sideline why they would try to get to the other sideline. Gradually, it came to me that there was more to it than that. It was exciting and the people around me were excited. Dad would listen to the Nebraska football games on the radio and the announcer was exciting. Mostly the games were one sided, with Nebraska on the short end but they were still fun

to listen to. I believed that if we scored when we played a team like Oklahoma, that it was a victory of sorts. A score of fifty-five to six may be a beating to some fans but the six we scored was good enough fo r me. One time while visiting my grandparents, I found a rubber football in the town dump. It turned out to be the best ball for me. You could flatten it by squeezing it since it had a hole in the nose, but it would just pop back into shape again. I would kick with it and play with it over and over. Our pasture was terraced so that it sloped down to a meadow that was separated by a barbed-wire fence to keep all the animals off the railroad tracks. The steel posts ing the fence were about ten yards apart, so I would play make believe games when I could on my own field. When the train came by the engineer would give me a toot and I would run for a bit with the train. I also finding an old basket with the bottom torn out. I nailed it to the side of the barn and had a rubber ball I’d throw into the basket as I made up games in my head. After reading the Bobby Shantz story (he played with the Major Leagues), I put a tarp over the fence that served as my “catcher” and target for me to pitch to. I had a mat that was my home plate for me to throw over for strikes. A two by four was my pitchers’ rubber to stand on when I pitched. I would throw the ball to the target on the tarp and determine if it was a ball or strike and retrieve the ball and go back to the pitcher’s mound and throw again. I had the seasons covered as far as sports, but it was hard sometimes to find enough time to play. Between being a cowboy, working, sports, and a dog I was busy as could be. I had figured out how to make more stick horses. Actually, all I had to do was find a stick and put a piece of twine on one end and I had another stick horse. Cindy had one too and that got me in trouble. I decided to hide hers. Of course, she had to be a cry baby and tattle on me. Dad asked me about the whereabouts, and I told him that I rustled the horses. His reaction was that I better un-rustle them and that was the end of my horse rustling days. I grew up during the Golden Age of music. While milking, I would listen to the latest hits and songs on the radio. Although I had heard music and songs that Mom liked or others sang, my first hero was Johnny Cash. It wouldn’t be much

longer when Elvis Presley would be on. Then it seemed like everyone had a great song. I would sing to the top of my lungs songs like “Running Bear” “Witch Doctor” “Book of Love” “Young Love” “Last Kiss” and “It’s Only Make Believe” just to name a few. I loved them all. As I grew older, I learned that I could listen to more music at night from KOMA in Oklahoma City. The signal wasn’t available in the daytime. More music and more pop tunes.

#

The school had a contest at Halloween for the grade school kids. We were to all meet after school in our costumes and the teachers would judge us. We happened to have new puppies from our coon dogs. My sister, Cindy, dressed up with a pillow under her sack cloth, a bow in her hair, and carried a puppy around which won her the prize for cutest costume. (Hard to beat a puppy hound dog). I had decided to be a hula girl. I had red wax lips, a hula skirt, a flower on my ankle, and a wiggle to go around the gym with. What I had forgotten to do was take my shoes off which were the half-boot kind. With all my gyrations, I looked ridiculous enough to win the prize for funniest costume.

CHAPTER 12

Christmas

I feel I can touch the stars on a moonless night Sitting on a hill watching a flaming star far away yet bright I make a wish just as a screech of an owl pierces the air I feel the goosebumps and I bite my lip and I swear That everything is moving around in the dark the more I stare It is time to leave my dreams as I become aware That is what happens when I let my imagination roam Oh, what a wonderful time it is Nearby our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

A s the holiday approached, Mom’s younger sister, my Aunt Gus (her real name was Carol), visited. We went shopping in Ansley and she said I could pick out one toy for myself. With so many choices it was difficult to make a decision. I could sense that she was beginning to rue her offer as I couldn’t make up my mind. Finally, I selected a gun and holster set that shot caps. Two guns, one for each hip. Just like Hopalong Cassidy. Of course, I couldn’t actually have them until Christmas, but that didn’t matter. It was my first store-bought present. I still

have them t oday. There were changes on the home front, too. Dad’s sister and her family were moving to the farm we had been share cropping and there was tension since they had had two bad years in a row and felt they were primed to do better the following year. I was too young to know the details, but apparently it had derailed their future plans. They hadn’t secured another site to farm and so everything was up in the air. Eventually, Dad was able to get a deal to share crop some dry land located ten or twelve miles a bit southwest of town. Share cropping was what we did since we did not own land that could be farmed on. The owner of the land would receive a share of the crops that we would raise. Dry land farming was land that was not irrigated and generally was hilly land. Dad’s brother from Ansley had wanted to have a café by the highway and so my Dad agreed to do a major remodel on a building there which they would name the Hi-Way Café. The only problem with the café was that Dad would have to wait until it was completed until he got paid. As usual, this would not turn out to be a good deal. As spring approached, I was about to turn twelve, and Dad felt I was old enough to drive a tractor out to the farm we had agreed to share crop. The route was shorter if I would head like I was going to Oak Grove and as the road curved, I would stay to the right on a dirt road that would angle toward where I was to go up and through the hills. The landmark was the Dowse sod house as I turned to go through the hills. I was familiar with the area since it was where we went in the summer to pick chokecherries—the same area where we picked a very sour berry that made it impossible to spit; you could only drool. You never ate many berries but rather picked them and made chokecherry jelly. Still my favorite jelly. Anyway, the alternate route was to come out of the field we were farming and take a road on the west side just below Leska’s property, (schoolmates of mine) and make our way through the hills there and up Pickle Hill by a relative of ours, Murl Amos, and then on home. Pickle Hill was a long hill with a double bump in it. Once in a while we would help Murl, whom we called “Buster,” with milking his cows if he was sick or on vacation. He was Dad’s cousin and in later years, they would spend time fishing with him and his wife. The winter trapping had been successful that year and we had a lot of fur that we

sold. Dad was a good trapper. I that he had a big heavy bear trap that he would use to trap beaver. The other traps would get the beaver but many times the beaver would chew his foot off and escape. The bear trap was so heavy that when the beaver was caught, it would hold him under the water so he would drown before he could escape. I hated the trap since it was so heavy to carry. I did not have the strength to set it and Dad used vices to help him set it. Skinning the beaver was similar to other furs, but it was dried and cured by sewing it on an iron hoop in a circular manner. Another interesting technique Dad employed was with raccoons: When he came upon a fallen log along a creek bed, he would drill a small hole and place a small wad of tinfoil in it. He would drive two nails at a slant to almost a point. The raccoon would place his paw in to grab the shiny object and become entrapped. He would use these raccoons as training for young coon hounds. I know Dad had a lot of patience and he took care not in just setting the trap but trying to avoid leaving a scent. He would talk to me about it and since he was a smoker, I would ask him how he was going to do it since I could smell him. But he did a good job. He used to roll his own cigarettes. He would say to me, “Do you know who has been on the can longer than anyone else?” He’d laugh. “Prince Albert. He’s been on the can since 1919.” That was his brand. He bought a cigarette roller and would have me put tobacco in the roller and turn the wheel which, with the paper, would roll up a long cigarette and then I would push down and razor blades would cut the cigarette into four or five cigarettes. It saved him time and money. The sweet smell of the tobacco was ok, but I never liked it once it was lit.

CHAPTER 13

Stormy Days

In the evening light I walked along a path on a country lane Accompanied by the filtered sun that shined through and birds that sang I heard the whistle of the Bob White quail and was startled by mother pheasant hen The soft breeze felt refreshing on my skin and as I round the bend I can hear the water gurgling in the river by the willows near the sandbar A short walk by the baled hay and up the path around the barn and an old car Near the garden where a bright red cardinal has perched on my garden gnome Nearby my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

W e went b ack and forth enough times to the farm in the hills that Dad was satisfied I could make it there and back home safely. After getting the crop in he trusted me with the cultivating. He had me go in a very low gear so I would stay in the rows and not tear up the crop trying to get rid of the weeds. It was not my favorite equipment to work with since it required patience and focus and was tedious. Nevertheless, my performance was acceptable, and I learned many things.

The best part was going and coming. I loved watching the young pheasants scamper along the road. I would see quail—which there wasn’t a lot of in our area. As I got out in the hills, I would see grouse. There would be coyotes now and then. Magpies were colorful but strange. Meadowlarks would sing as I went along. All kinds of birds. Nasty badgers. I avoided them as they had a bad temper. Possum and rabbits. Deer and an occasional bobcat. I wasn’t allowed to stop. It was straight to the fields and home. I learned to tell time by the sun, and it was a victory if I could pull into our driveway and the 6 o’clock whistle would blow. I liked the time I spent farming in the Sandhills. There was a lot of activity. It beat working in the garden, but I still pulled duty there, too. I was beginning to have some interaction with other children. I was so involved with my parents and what we were doing that except for school, my activities were limited to my relatives. Dad worked that summer in Ansley and there was some time for me to explore the river.

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Dad and Mom were good friends with a couple who lived a block from Main Street. They had four children, two my age. Bruce, a classmate of mine, would come and go down by the river with me and we would chase tadpoles and catch minnows. The river was mostly ankle deep and, once in a while, there might be a hole that was deeper but if it was too deep, I would relax and let the current drift me out. Some areas had quicksand. If you wiggled around a bit you could sink in, but it wasn’t dangerous. My favorite playmate though was my cousin Gale. We were the same age and he was always fun to be with. We got along great with an occasional scuffle that would be short lived since he was bigger, stronger, and faster than me. He was always the gracious victor and whatever differences we had were quickly forgiven. He would always have my back and was there for me. He was also a good athlete. His dad, my uncle, had cattle and horses so if they needed another cowboy, I would be there to help them drive cattle from one pasture to another. Their horses were a little less frisky and easier for me. They also had TV so once

in a great while we would go there to watch. That summer we had a freak storm that was scary. I had heard about tornados, and the stories made an impact as I was frightened of them. One afternoon an ominous cloud formed right over our heads, unlike any I’d ever seen. It hung low and everything became still. Then it started to rain and hail. I’d never seen hailstones like that—they were larger than softballs with nubbins like spikes. We decided to head for the cellar and I put a large pillow on my head for protection but it was too large for me to see where I was going down the steps and as I lifted it off my head, I was clobbered with a hailstone and knocked for a loop down the steps. Then came the wind, but there was no tornado. Afterward regaining my senses, Mom and I picked up some of the hailstones and put them in the ice box. Later, when Dad came home, we showed him, and his reaction was that he thought we had melted them together ourselves. Fortunately, we didn’t lose any livestock to the storm. Weather in the Sandhills was unpredictable. A bright sunny day in the morning could quickly turn into a mess later in the day. I learned at an early age to pay attention to the elements. Dad would warn me about watching the sky and being ready to head home or for cover. Safety first and take no chances. Second chances did not exist with Mother Nature for those who dallied. Dad installed one of those phones that you turn a crank on the side and you pick up the receiver and talk into it. We had one in the barn and house. I don’t ever using it much after initially playing with it, but that fall when I started back to school, I would get a call on Saturdays from a classmate and she would gab with me. Our dads were friends and her parents milked cows, but unlike us, their operation was a dairy farm. They had machines and made a living with their business. We were school friends and it was good to get a call and talk to someone. My dog, King, and I were learning to hunt together. Dad had taken me out and I shot a pheasant, so I was on my way for a great experience of hunting. The gun Dad gave me to hunt with, a single shot 20-gauge, came with safety instructions on how to use a gun. The most important was to never point a gun, unloaded or loaded, at anything unless you were going to shoot it. It was ingrained in me and I would always make sure a gun never was pointed at anyone no matter what. When crossing fences, I was to leave it against a fence post and pick it back up

once I was on the other side. King and I loved going by the river and walking along the banks and in the willows looking for game. Nothing was shot unless I was going to eat it. I didn’t carry many shells since they cost money, and since I had a single shot I had to make it count. I learned to clean my game right away and Mom would take it from there. Nothing beat fresh meat in the hunting season. I loved the way Mom would cook pheasant. She had all kinds of recipes and they all tasted great.

CHAPTER 14

Picking up Corn

No matter what the hour or the dates We mend our fences and fix our gates Life goes on and nothing waits For the tired cowboy who may deserve a better fate There is no time for sick days and the weak Just get it on until the work is complete Side by side with my family so I am not alone Nearby on our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

D ad had planted some corn on vacant lots in town. After school and before I did chores, I would spend some time hand picking and shucking corn. I was slow since I wasn’t very strong and did not enjoy this task at all. It did not matter though. I was expected to do it and big enough to know that complaining wasn’t toler ated. I got a Davy Crocket coonskin hat for Christmas which came in handy. We spent Christmas vacation picking up corn from the field. Our single-row picker we used to harvest knocked more corn down than it picked so we had to pick it up

by hand. It was a cold, cold task. Even worse than walking the rows and picking up the corn and throwing it in the wagon was driving the tractor. Whoever drove the tractor wore my buffalo coat that I used for my bedspread to keep warm with. It was big and heavy and kept out the elements. It was still cold just the same and I I was very happy to go back to school. Dad found a hand-crank corn sheller for me to use to feed the cows. It was an exercise that I quickly came to dread. It took a lot of effort for a small return. Just the same, I spent my time on the corn pile shelling corn. The side benefit was the corn cobs, which had multiple uses. They were good for getting a fire going in the pot belly stove. If we had enough of them, we would put them down on the lane into our property—they held the sand together, giving the lane texture. They were also good for throwing and, finally, if you didn’t have toilet paper you had an alternative. Dad got a blue rock thrower and on Sundays we would have blue rock shoots. We called it blue rocks which is another name for trap shooting. The machine was set by hand so my sister and I would sit by the mechanism that had been slightly dug out and replaced with a plywood cover to shield us and I would draw it back and it would latch. Cindy would place a blue rock in one of three places that would determine the direction the blue rock would go. The shooters would have five stations (posts in the ground) where they would stand and whoever busted the best out of five would win a ham or turkey. There was a modest entry fee to pay for the prizes and the contest fees. In the event of a tie they would simply step back to another post making it farther and harder until someone missed. Once the event got going it would move along at a rather fast pace until I would tire and Dad would come encourage us to keep going. Finally, my arm would just wear down. Dad came up with the idea to enter me and then got someone to volunteer to take my place. I won my first event and buoyed with the recognition and brief rest from working in the pit, was banished back to the pit. It gave me the shot in the arm to keep up the demands of blue rock shooting. Sitting in the pit and latching the arm of the mechanism would get tiresome and getting to compete in the shoot gave me a brief rest and allow me to regain the energy to go back and continue setting the blue rocks for the other shooters. The events continued for a few Sunday afternoons and were a welcome respite

from what we generally did. All good things must come to an end and after winning a couple more shoots, it was determined that I was a ringer and therefore not allowed to participate anymore. I guess the general attitude was since I had access to the trap that I may be practicing between shoots and getting sharper. This was hardly the case since I didn’t have the money to buy extra shells or blue rocks, so my only practice came during the contests or when I went hunting. It was good to be thought of so highly but disappointing to be banned. Dad never said much but I could tell he was proud of my marksmanship. It didn’t hurt that the award was a canned ham—that was good to win. The shoots ended as suddenly as they began but left me with fond memories. That spring we moved to another farm to share crop. It was south of town, much closer, to home, about five miles and flatter. It was an old family friend that Dad had grown up with. Charley and his wife had six or seven children. She had ed away leaving him as a single parent. Eventually, all the kids moved on and Charley lived alone on the farm. It would prove to be a pleasant property to work on. It was easy to travel back and forth to. Every once in a while, Charley would have me come in and have a little lunch around noon time with him. He would wave me down while I was out in the field and motion for me to come in. He lived by himself and I think he enjoyed having someone to talk and have lunch with. He was always very good to me and I enjoyed being around him. I was getting older, thirteen, and better at farming, so Dad gave me more responsibility. I began earlier than normal, and I plowed my first field. I drove a Ford tractor with a two-bottom plow (used for tilling two furrows at a time). The plowing was slow but enjoyable. All sorts of birds would follow me, preying on what I was exposing in the soil. Hawks would go after the field mice whose nests I was tearing up. It was never boring for me and I liked to sing to myself the tunes I heard and memorized. At the north end of the field there was a windbreak and mulberry trees that grew up in the area. Later in the year when I took a break, I could indulge myself in one of my favorite treats. The road home ran along the railroad tracks and whether I was coming or going there was always wildlife. I could watch the young pheasants and quail scurry along the road. Several times I would spot varmints, including coyotes, badgers, possum, and raccoons. Deer were generally on the east side of the road, but I also saw them in my windbreak and their tracks in my field. In the distance there

was always ducks, geese, and waterfowl in the skyline. Oftentimes they would be in the fields I was working. As I grew older, I was becoming better with my surroundings. I could time my entrance to the driveway and the 6 o’clock whistle and generally was spot on time. That spring Mom took the train to Chicago where Ike had been moved to. He was staying at Hines Hospital there but had been put on notice that he needed to go home. It had been three years since his accident and he needed to have a home near or with his family. When those in charge reviewed my grandparents’ home in Taylor, they knew he couldn’t live there since it did not have running water or electricity and the way out and in was either through the town dump or by it. Paperwork was begun which eventually would lead to Dad building Ike a home. Although I never knew it at the time, big changes were coming. We only had a half day for our last day of school, so my friend Bruce and I headed for the river. We left our clothes on the bank and ran after whatever we could chase. It was a perfect day, bright and sunny, and the water was warm and felt good. We had discovered a couple of waterholes that were about chest deep, so it felt like we were swimming. Most of the time the river didn’t have enough water to enjoy other than wading. After two or three hours of getting rid of our excess energy I headed home. I discovered when I got home that I was badly sunburned. I always sunburned every year but this time my whole body was burned. I began running a fever and Mom tried to soothe my skin. As evening came, I was sorer and feeling terrible. When Dad came home, he was not amused by my condition. He felt I should have better sense and wanted me up and about to do my chores. Mom stood by me as mothers do and I was left alone with my own misery. Recovery time was almost three days. Those sunburns I endured would come back to haunt me later in my life. There was a reason for my dad’s disposition—he didn’t get paid for the work he did on the café. It’s that old adage that doing business with family often doesn’t work out. He would busy himself with finding other ways to keep us afloat. He was the most persistent person I would ever know and although that was a character trait he ed on to me, it was never close to the level he had. He just never gave up. I when we were picking up bales of hay on a meadow one day. It was

a picture perfect day when we drove the tractor and wagon into the field that early summer morning. There were two deer standing near the trees and they never seemed inclined to move; to them it was their field alone to enjoy. The morning began with the perfect temperature. I could feel the breeze in the shadows of the meadow as the sun was still rising; it felt gentle and refreshing. Although it gets hot in the Sandhills, there is always a breeze or as the day wears on, a wind. The humidity is low, so although the temperature may be higher, it is workable. That morning, picking up hay bales wasn’t difficult. As it began to approach noon, the air became stickier and the bales heavier. I started to feel what it’s supposed to feel like when you’re out in the fields on a summer day picking up hay. We were almost done and the wagon was just about loaded when I made the mistake of moving carelessly while I was driving on the side of a hill and the load shifted and there went all the bales. I was frustrated and almost cried and fully expected a rebuke from Dad. He looked at the situation and turned to me and said, “That’s the way it goes sometimes on a Friday morning” like this was a regular occurrence. His positive attitude always stayed with me, and when I have a setback, I think back to that time and start over again. We had made good time so the next couple of hours we worked to put it all back in place again. It wasn’t really too bad other than it had become much hotter. As I neared my birthday, Mom thought it would be okay if I invited some friends over and we would make ice cream and she would make a cake and we could play games together. She had a great imagination. Six or seven kids came and we played ball and had a scavenger hunt and it was a great time. I didn’t know what a scavenger hunt was, so she explained the rules and showed me how it was done. For example, she had written down to get a cow hair. Then get a chicken feather and so on. I was so excited that I was beside myself. I still am like that sometimes. I never had playmates over to have fun and play games, so I was hyper. As luck would have it, I drew the note that Mom had shown me. I was so excited that I did not that it was the same one that Mom had given me as an example and my team was off to the pasture chasing the cows for a cow hair instead of picking one off the barbed-wire fence and chasing the hens for a feather instead of picking one off the egg box. My team finished last. After

everyone was gone, I learned what had happened. Mom put on a perfect party and we all enjoyed ourselves and of course homemade ice cream with chocolate cake is always a winner with everyone. After the fields were plowed and harrowed and the crops put in, I had to cultivate until the plants got bigger. Cultivation required focus so I would not till the plants over and I had to take my time so there wasn’t much singing or daydreaming while on the tractor. I was always glad to be done with cultivating. Then we would do irrigation again. The good news with Charley’s land was that it wasn’t as sandy and so there were less break outs. The ground was not as sandy, and the soil held together and the water would stay in the ditches. It still was a chore irrigating though. It was better to get up in the middle of the night and change the tubes we used to irrigate with and reset them in different rows. Nighttime was cooler but the corn leaves would cut me and there were lots of biting bugs so it was an itchy occupation. After we got that going it was time to start mowing the fields. The alfalfa first and then the other fields. The sickles on the mower were dangerous so I was never allowed to get off the tractor with them in gear—a good idea as it most likely kept me from losing a finger or two. When the mover got plugged, I would take it out of gear and shut off the tractor and get things unplugged and then start back again. I liked mowing because of the sweet smell of the hay and it was a faster pace than cultivating. Plus, it was a bit like plowing in that I was uncovering all the hiding places the wildlife was in. I didn’t realize there were so many animals and birds around me until I started mowing. The grasshoppers and crickets always showed up this time of the year too. Next was the raking and it was a breeze. Now I could go faster and it didn’t take long until I had it all in rows ready to bale. We never had a baler, so we had to have someone come in and bale it for us. After letting them sit for a while to dry out, we would go back and pick them up. What I wasn’t any good at was applying anhydrous ammonia. I could not take the smell and it would take my breath away. The first time I used it, I ran into a big whiff of it and I could feel it sear my lungs. I tried jumping from the tractor to get away, but Dad grabbed me and kept me on. After that, he did the job. I

think I had scared him with my reaction.

CHAPTER 15

Down by the River

When the sun is near it highest and the corn laid by The evening stars twinkle and mother nature sings her lullaby We gather our poles to enjoy a day off to go fishing Hoping to catch some good ones is our hope and wishing We bury the barrel in the bank by the cold water spring So we can have a cool drink and enjoy what the day will bring Grasshoppers, deer flies, cactus, sand burrs, and prickly plants Do not stop us from our fun time and picnic with the ants It is out on the river banks of grass and wild brome We have our gathering nearby our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

W e would sometimes go up to the Calamus River where Mom was born. This was before the dam was constructed. We would cross the river and go through a gate on the west side of the road. There were two gravel pits about a mile from the highway. Dad had sunk a barrel in a spring on the side of the river. The water was cool and we drank directly from that. It beat having to tote a water cooler.

We even went down to the river together and went swimming a few times in a deep waterhole that Dad had found. He sometimes would set out catfish lines along the bank and of course he trapped and kept tabs on what was happening along the r iver. The gravel pits were good fishing but the most fun was fishing in the river for trout. It was hard to stand still since the river was spring fed and the water so cool that it made my feet numb. The air temp was generally close to a hundred degrees but the water I stood in was cold. I wasn’t that good at catching trout, and my success was limited to shiners or small fingerlings. Mom and Dad were always more successful, so we would always have plenty to enjoy. One of my better experiences came while fishing for trout in the Calamus River. One day while standing in the river I heard a loud goose honking and getting louder. It was coming from a bend in the river and as it came into sight, it was honking to high heaven. Then I noticed a coyote following her on the riverbank. They kept coming closer, oblivious to me. The goose was just a few yards from me when she became aware that I was there. The coyote on the bank noticed me at the same time. They both immediately fled. Memories like that are the benefit of living so close to nature in the Sandhills. I also the deer flies from those days fishing for trout in the Calamus. Apparently, I had a sweet spot that attracted them to the top of my head. They would attack out of the blue and there was no alternative other than putting down the fishing rod and preparing for battle. Their bite stung so one of the evasive moves was to dive under the water, but they would be waiting when I came up. Then it was swatting time. The best method was to keep at it and kill them one at a time. They usually came in groups of six or seven so it was a protracted battle. Swat and kill and dive under the water and come back up and repeat the sequence again. It wasn’t over until the last one was dead as they were persistent to the death. The other annoyance was that everything seemed to be prickly. The sand burrs and cactus led the way. I had to watch where I stepped or else pay the consequences of an ill-advised route to wherever I was headed. I spent a lot of time picking out the burrs and cactus from my feet and legs. The other issue was not a problem until I would get home and, after awaking the next morning, discovering I was covered with chigger bites; what a dilemma and

source of irritation. Then it was necessary to check for ticks. In spite of all this, it was a treat to fish and spend the day at the river. I would carry my welts around my waist scratching and suffering for a few days until they went away.

CHAPTER 16

The Wanna- be Coon Dog

When my little rat terrier ed away, it wasn’t long before my dad would bring A little black Labrador that I would name King He was my pal who listened to my tales of woe and songs I would sing Played and hunted with me and made me happy as he did his thing He liked to believe he was as good as our other coon hounds And he strutted the farm thinking he would eventually get a coon on the ground we trapped and placed in the front yard up in a tree stood around watching waiting for him to see So up the tree he did scamper and run Till he fell down and decided this wasn’t fun That’s the way it was for the dog of my own Nearby the barn on my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

T he music on the radio was delightful. Songs like “Little Darlin’” “Oh Boy”

“Diana” and my favorite at the time, “Chantilly Lace” by the Big Bopper. I would sing all of them on the tractor when I was driving in the fields or wherever. Of course there were country favorites too as Johnny Horton was rolling out several hits along with Jim Reeves and others. I believe these songs kept up my spirits and lifted me up especially when things were t ough. My dog, King, would listen to my sad tales when I was down and would lick my face and nestle his head on my lap consoling me in my grief. More often than not, he was helping me with the chores and keeping things in order. He was growing up too and was very much used to the routine. His only resentment was being left behind when we took the coon hounds hunting. I could sense there was some jealousy despite everything else he got to do. He wanted to be a coon dog. One time we captured a live coon and we brought him home to see what King would do. We had a large tree outside the front of the house with a large limb that extended about fifteen feet above the ground. Dad placed the raccoon at the end of the limb and King just about went nuts once he realized it was there. He sprang up the tree, got a foot hold, went out on the limb, and hurried out to the coon, but he mis-stepped and fell to the ground. I was alarmed that he might have hurt himself but without hardly stopping, he ran back up the tree and back out on the limb to the same spot. He slipped but regained his balance and hung on. Then he looked down and saw how far he was off the ground and froze. I couldn’t coach him down and it was a struggle to get him down from there. His coon dog days were over. King was a bird dog from that time on.

CHAPTER 17

Sports

Chores are done and on this Saturday we head into town Get a few things and have some coffee and look around the group sitting by the window at the favorite table Telling stories, some which are true, get a word in if able It goes like this, “I believe it is the wettest, driest, hottest, or coldest I’ve seen Laughter and chatter and swearing that it has never been Sipping my coffee or enjoying an ice cream cone Nearby my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

A son of Charley, the owner of the farm that we sharecropped with just south of our home, Carl, had retired from the service and was staying with Charley. Like his dad, Carl was always good to me and gave me praise for the work I would do on the farm. He was a childhood friend of my dad’s and they had plenty in common. It was fun to listen to them visit and chuckle about their childhood days. Carl learned that I had an interest in listening to boxing on the radio and said I should come down and watch Friday night boxing on TV. I was in heaven. Dad

enjoyed it too. We spent several Friday nights together. I can still the Gillette shaver commercials (and sing them): “To look sharp and to feel sharp too, buy a razor that is built for you, light, regular, and heavy too the only way to get a finer decent shave.” The other benefit of farming this tract of land besides being closer to home was that it provided another good hunting spot. It was close enough that I would often walk the railroad tracks down to it or walk beside the river and then east to the farm. It had a nice windbreak on the north side and I would often find quail (Mom’s favorite). Mom liked quail since the taste was not as gamey and she prepared it like all the other game I brought in. Sometimes when I hunted on the river, I would get a duck and once in a blue moon even a goose. The ducks I got were so small that it wasn’t necessarily a moment of pride to bag one of them. On one cold, blustery, winter day by the river, I was out hunting and shot a duck. As luck would have it, the duck fell in the river channel and, without thinking, I rushed out to retrieve it. It kept getting farther away from me. I heard yelling and looked to see my dad across the river waving for me to get back to shore. Dad and King were running a trap line on that side of the river. I could tell he was not pleased with me being in the river on a very cold day. The river had potholes and quicksand and was a dangerous place to be in frigid temperatures. Once I got to the shore, my pants were instantly frozen and acted as an insulator against the cold. My feet were another issue as they were wet and cold so I hurried along toward a neighbor’s place that I knew would take me in. As I moved along, the channel of the river had swung back to the bank and there my duck was, right in front of me. I reached down and picked it up. I felt foolish for having waded out so far. Dad would later scold me about the dangers of being in the river during winter. The duck was small and had very little meat which made it even worse. However, it served as a good lesson. King was good about retrieving everything I shot and giving me a heads-up to what was around. He had a very soft mouth and was good about fetching the game and bringing it to me. He often brought back game that was still alive and he never bit into it. There was only one exception: I thought it would be a good thing to bag a squirrel, so when I hit one and it fell to the ground, King started to pick it up, but the squirrel grabbed his nose and bit him. He howled and chomped it and from that time on, squirrels were handled differently—seeing

how indifferent he was to squirrels, I decided that I would leave them alone. Just about everything else was fair game. I was doing well in school and I read lots of books in the evenings. I enjoyed reading books like The Call of the Wild and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer as well as others. I really liked dog stories at that age. Mom had a Sears and Roebuck catalog and we picked out some school clothes. It was a first for me to help select them. She had ordered things before, but it was her selection. Moms always know best anyway. I wasn’t too aware of what was best. Just as long as they fit. I that my shoes were usually the half-boot kind that was good for a farm boy, but I saw they were different from what the other kids wore. At that age though, it didn’t bother me, just as long as they kept me warm and dry in the winter. In October, we were listening to the football game and the end of the Nebraska game the announcer said that Kansas might upset Oklahoma—they hadn’t lost a conference game during the entire decade of the 1950s. We tuned in but Oklahoma won and I said that was alright since we were playing them next and I wanted Nebraska to beat them. That was unlikely since Nebraska had only won three games all year, but I was an optimist. On Halloween, a bright and sunny day with temps in the forties, the most exciting game I had heard developed. Back and forth they went until in the fourth quarter with Nebraska clinging to a twenty-five to twenty-one lead, it came down to one final play. Only Lyell Bremser could illustrate it: “Here we are folks, as the mighty Sooners come to the line of scrimmage for one final play, the Huskers crawl up to the line to meet them to keep the horde from scoring, the ball is in the air and Ron Meade intercepts and the Huskers WIN! Man, woman, and child, I never thought I would see this day!” I was as excited as could be and although there have many good games in Husker history, this is one that lives on in my memory. The air turned cool, then frosty, and finally the cold settled in freezing the creek and pond and icing up the puddles. I liked playing on the ice on the pond and would slip and slide on the ice in my shoes. I would use a limb as a hockey stick and a rubber ball or a piece of wood and shoot it across the ice. It was even more fun if I could find someone to play with me so we could try and catch a football on the ice. The spills were dangerous and spectacular. It is a wonder that I didn’t break something.

Sometime around Christmas, Ike left Chicago and moved in with us. It was a little cramped in our home since he would be in bed a lot and needed a wheelchair. He brought us a TV and now we had entertainment in the evening. Reception at that time was not always clear and I staring at the screen waiting for the snowy covered images to clear. They would fade in and out, but it was something we never had before, and we had patience. Things would be different with Ike living with us. Out of the blue I had cafeteria money for lunch. There was more to eat at the table and more variety. I learned how to change his urinal jar and fetch items for him. He maintained a good sense of humor and we would play cards. Dad had taken a piece of door moulding and cut a groove in the wood so we could place his cards in the slots and he could read and select the cards he wanted from that. He still teased me endlessly, but it felt good to have him back. I believe it was good for him to be around family too.

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It’s amazing what animals can do. For whatever reason, we were fooling around one time and ignoring King, who sat by the door, waiting for table scraps. On his own, he got up and went over and picked up an empty coffee can and brought it to me to put food in. I had never trained him to do this. It blew me away. From that time on, it was, get the can and bring it here. He was good company for Ike and I’m sure he appreciated it. I had a cat that I was closer to than others. Dad didn’t care for cats. He was sure they killed too many birds and young baby pheasants. This cat’s name was Mustard, since he resembled that color. He was always there when I milked the cows as were several others. Mustard would hang around closer to me than the others and I liked the way he purred when he was around me. One Sunday morning after chores I was in the attic reading when I heard the sound of the .22 rifle. I ran down to see what it was and learned that Dad had shot my cat. We had new baby chicks in a small shed. They had just arrived. Mustard had reached under the gap of the door trying to nab a chick and that led to his demise. So much for cats.

Mustard wasn’t the only thing that would get shot. The rats would run around the corn bin and by the shed attached to the barn and it wasn’t uncommon for Dad to shoot them and have me go bury them. Varmints around the buildings were common. We got some hogs and I would slop them. One of the boars would get aggressive when I was in the pen and would scare me by charging me. Dad said not to back down but take something with me and hit him on the nose. I think he meant a club, but I picked up a steel rod with some type of gear on the end of it. When I went in the pen and he came at me, I got him just right on the tip of his nose. It cured him and there weren’t any more problems after that. When I was milking the cows in the winter and my hands were really cold, one of my favorite ways to warm them up was to put them under the flap of skin between the cow’s leg that partially went over the top of her milk bag. It was always warm but sometimes the cow was unappreciative. My milk stool was a T with one board nailed to form a T to another. I would use one board and hold it horizonal and place another on top to make a “T” and nail them together for a stool I could sit on. If the cow was nervous, it was easy for her to knock me off the stool. That’s why I got the older more sedate cows to milk. The ones that kicked would require leg irons to keep them from knocking everything over, but my cows didn’t need them. Life moved at a good pace for me that spring and summer. Charley and Carl would come out and get me off the tractor and take me in for a treat or sandwich when I was farming. Carl would brag me up and make me feel good about myself; that was different than I was used to. Carl had two young girls, his nieces, visit him that summer and he introduced me to them. He had called me over from the alfalfa field and was trying to get them interested in a farm boy. I was much too shy for this and it didn’t matter anyway since by their looks, farm boys like me were not what they cared about. Looking back, I’m sure that my appearance at the time was a bit frightful. I weighed in at ninety-eight pounds my freshman year when I went out for football. It really wasn’t a choice since there were only 15 boys, ninth through twelfth grade, and all hands were needed to compete with a schedule of three eleven-man games and five eight-man games. When I put my hip pads on and

tied the belt, they would fall to my ankles. Coach insisted I wear them but the only way I could do that was to tie them to my shoulder pads. I might have been small, but I was even slower. In practice, if I got to participate, the guys liked to tackle me and pull my pants off. The coach was afraid to let me play so most of the time I just stood around. At the first game we played, as we were doing our warmups, I felt a breeze around my legs and sure enough my pants had fallen off. I sheepishly pulled them up and glanced around but it appeared no one noticed. Mom made me pants from blue jeans with extra padding sewed in for the knees and after that, Coach let me wear those. However, I never got to play in any games and was deeply disappointed. Basketball was no better. Our school gym was so small that the top of the circles on each end just about met at the center. The chimney stuck out onto the floor on one end of the gym and big round pipes ran across the end so that if someone pushed you into them when you trying a layup, it would crush your ribs and take your breath away. The ceiling to the gym was low. So much so that if you shot from the top of the key, the ball would hit the ceiling. I spent the season on the bench with some other freshmen and made jokes about not playing. The only good thing was that I was involved and got to go to games. Track was different. Everyone got to do something. Coach put the slow guys in the longest event that schools had back then. It was the mile. That was my event. Turned out that other coaches from other schools had the same idea so there was always a large group for the mile. I never knew how I did in the race. There were several runners that were ahead of me and I knew some were behind me. I learned to not drink milk before a race. If I did my mouth would dry up and I would start to cramp and slow down. I the race I ran at North Loup-Scotia. The race occurred at the peak of a spring snowstorm. As I ran around the track I could barely see where I was going. I had thoughts of cutting across the track but with each lap, the coach would be in a parka yelling at me. The wind and snow blew so loud that I couldn’t hear, and it was the only time I knew of that he watched a mile race. Since the mile race was a collection of the poorest runners (at this time), I don’t believe it created much interest. I about froze and sure enough I caught a good cold from it.

I loved sports but it was obvious that I lacked ability. When summer came, I found my niche: My practice at throwing a baseball paid off. Since I had control, I found success as a pitcher. We played only a few games, but it helped my ego. It was nothing great except that I played. No matter how much I loved competing, I wasn’t that competitive as far as doing well. I just liked playing but unfortunately, I wasn’t that good.

CHAPTER 18

Taylor

The old man with leathered skin swats the fly buzzing round him As he stretches the barbed wire he breaks into a grin He watches his grandkids playing near him in the ditches Gathering chiggers, soon to be welts, in their britches Oh what a night it’s going be, when they will be scratching and itching He rounds them up and brings them to grandma waiting in the kitchen Enjoy them now for it won’t be long until their grown Nearby our old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

T he VA in Chicago where Ike was staying had previously checked out the home where my grandparents lived and found it unsuitable for Ike to be living. It was necessary to build a home in town that would be wheelchair accessible. Dad started building Ike a home for him and my grandparents. It was located on the north side of town in Taylor right off the highway. I did farm work, and in between I helped with the building. Right away it was noticeable to me that Dad was stressed. He knew that there wasn’t going to be enough money and it was a matter of how much in the hole he would end up in to make it happen. I gathered that information at later discussions since all I understood was that it was

stressful, and I needed to keep my nose to the grinds tone. I helped dig the laterals, (digging seemed to be my best attribute). Then I would farm a bit and come back and help with something else. Other uncles would come by and help some, but Dad and Mom would do the bulk of the work. When we poured concrete, I helped with the mixer. I really sunburned my arms and that I kept putting them in the buckets of water to cool them. After a few days it was time to take the tractor home and move to the hay fields. It was a trip of over twenty miles from Taylor to Comstock, but I liked the drive. Except I needed to get gas in Sargent and I only had a dollar. Doug Higgins, who went to school with me but was older, worked there pumping gas. He put in a dollar and ten cents’ worth. I asking how I was going to take out ten cents. He laughed and said that was the refund and I breathed a sigh of relief and headed home. My favorite memory of home was that of pulling in the driveway between the garden and the tree line and the water sprinkler going back and forth on Mom’s flowers and gladiolas. The garden had been weeded and looked great. It was so good to be home after being away a few days. It looked like an oasis. An uncle by marriage stayed awhile with us and helped work on the home. Val was a professor at Nebraska but had some stress issues and took some time off for himself. I he really helped me understand algebra. I had read Cheaper by the Dozen and in the book it had a formula for squaring numbers in your head up to a hundred. Val and I worked on a way that we could do it with squaring any amount, no matter how high we went. He discovered the way to do it and I was right there with him. I showing off a bit in class with my expertise. Years later, after I came home from the service, I was telling someone about it and as I tried to explain how I did it, I couldn’t . I called Val, and he forgot how we did it, too. Bummer, just when I thought we had it down, we lost it. Val only stayed a little while with us, but he really made math come easy for me, especially algebra. Ike paid for the rights to the hay on the railroad right away and I was given the job of taking care of it. The new school year had begun, and I was to be entering the tenth grade but I never went as I was busy mowing. I would see the school

bus coming and going and I missed my classmates. I had finished raking the hay and the baling was completed. I was beginning to pick up the bales when the school principal gave us a visit. Dad had made the decision that I would be held out that year since I was needed to help out. The principal said it wasn’t an option and I needed to go to school. Since I was far enough along with the haying, it was agreed I would go back to school. I finished the job and Ike paid me with a twin bed. I never had a real bed up to that time and I was very proud to have earned one. I still have it today. I grew a little and my weight was one-hundred-fifteen pounds that fall. My pads could stay up without being tied together, but I was still small—and still slow. That didn’t change so I was a lineman who sat on the bench. There was a new coach and he let me scrimmage in practice and that kept me motivated. I was a bit of a problem sometimes since I had a bit of Irish in me. The scrimmages would get a little testy. I would pinch and try to punch in a pileup and step on my teammates’ feet. They would give back more than I could deliver so it wasn’t that big of an issue with anyone but me. At the very least it made practice more fun. I about fainted the first time the coach had me go into a game. The opposing team called for a re-huddle when they saw me across from them and ran three straight plays over me. The coach pulled me out and asked how I was. I loved it but really wasn’t sure if I did any good. The good news was that I played. The house in Taylor was completed that fall and Ike moved in with his parents. Mom and Dad auctioned off the farm since they had no money. We moved into Dad’s mother’s place which was empty and was on the north side of town. It felt awkward without livestock to care for. It was the worst of times and I was sad to leave. On top of it, King had wandered off and was found dead by a farmer’s feed lot. He had been shot. This only compounded my misery. Unknown to me were that plans were made for Mom to go to Omaha and take some classes and find a job. She would stay with relatives there. As I struggled with the situation and changes, I tried to concentrate but just could not focus as well as in the past. I was having difficulty with a teacher who thought I was disruptive, and he was right. Basketball season had begun, and I was still on the bench joking about not playing.

Dad and Mom broke the news to me at Christmas time that I would be moving in with Ike since my grandparents needed help learning how to use the various gadgets that come with a home that has electricity and plumbing. Dad would be moving with my sister to Omaha to reunite with Mom. It was a quick turn around and caught me off guard. I always felt connected to my parents and this separation would be difficult. This also meant I would be changing schools and going to Taylor. Ike had bought me a new coat. It was cream colored and sort of felt like plastic as it would become very stiff in the cold. I liked the school and learned that they had geometry the first semester and I needed to take two semesters of it in one semester. I spent a lot of time after school catching up. It took a bit to catch on, but I finally got it. Taylor was a larger school and had a larger gym. I got to play in games right away and so I liked that. One of the first games was against my old teammates and I could tell that they were surprised to see me play. I was surprised too. I didn’t play much but at least I wasn’t sitting all the time. When I had free time I would go to my grandparents’ old home. It was only a couple miles away. I would cross the bridge over the North Loup River and go through the town dump and to their place. I always liked the dump since I would find things to use or play with. The buildings were vacant, and the home was lonely. It wasn’t the same with no one there. I found a boat that my uncles had made by welding two car hoods together and a long rope tied to the one end. It didn’t take long to figure out why the rope was there since the boat was difficult to keep afloat. It would take on water since it was hard to keep it from tilting side to side. It would sink and the rope would float up and I would grab it and pull it up and try it all over again. Finally, one day I sunk it in the gravel pit, and it was too deep for the rope to float to the top. It was most likely a bit of good fortune for me since I wasn’t that great of a swimmer. Before school, Grandma would ask me how many pancakes I wanted for breakfast. At first, I would say two, but her pancakes were the size of a dinner plate so later I would say one. Even that was more than I could eat. I would tell her I was just one person (she was used to feeding many), but she felt I needed to get bigger and eat more. At night, Ike would encourage me to eat up. He thought

I needed to fatten up. Ike had me do odd jobs around the house. We tried out the knobs on the washer and dryer and other appliances so we all knew how to work them. We had trouble with the thermostat. It seemed to backward what we were trying to get it to do. Ike used to tease me that we had frost on the windows when the air conditioning was on. One of my best moments arrived when Gale and Angie (his future wife) came and got me. I believe it was them who first took me to Oscar’s Palladium in Sargent. This was where kids hung out and danced. At night we used to listen to KOMA from Oklahoma City as they played the latest hits. I would go with them and stay at Gale’s house for the weekend. Often, we would drive cattle or do small jobs around their place. We always had fun and it felt good to be with them. As Ike settled in, he started receiving visitors. While he was living with us in Comstock, he seldom had anyone stop by. It was good for him to reconnect with old friends. It was always awkward at first as it took a bit to get used to him in a wheelchair or lying in bed, but Ike was good at getting the focus on living and not what was or might have been. He would have me fetch a beer for the guests and they would gab on and on. This was good therapy for Ike, and it lifted his spirits. He started getting up more and even had them drive him out to a favorite hill with some beer and they would sit there under the stars and moonlight and talk about good times. I was his caretaker and beer fetcher. It wasn’t long before he began insisting I have a beer and finally one night gave me more than I could handle. That was my first time being sick and of course he thought it was funny. One night at home with his pals I drank a beer with them and went to bed early. Sometimes I would sleepwalk and sure enough I got up with just a sheet wrapped around me and walked in on the party they were having. I didn’t know what I was doing but they thought it was funny. From that time on I was known as “Ahab the Arab” (pronounced “Ay-rab”) which was a popular song at that time. I was enjoying my stay there with Ike and the occasional weekends with Gale and Angie. However, some of this filtered back to my parents, so when school was done, I was headed to Omaha.

CHAPTER 19

Omaha

They brought their families and came for the promise of land Fighting the elements and working the fields as best they can Then the country beckoned for them to leave it all To fight for America and they answered the call These are our forefathers the men so brave It is all I can do to hold back my tears as I gaze at their grave The wind presses my face and the meadowlarks sing as I stand alone Nearby my old Nebraska home

By Steve Amos (and EK)

I wasn’t that excited about going to Omaha. I had been there the previous summer with Charley. I had never been to a big city except for the football games in Lincoln and even then it was just by train and then back to home. D ick Ellersick was Charley’s son and married Irene Leska (who was also from Comstock) and they lived in Carter Lake that year. I was to stay with them. The first night I was there, they took me to the Bohemian Café in South Omaha. I loved it. The next day they took me downtown and left me at Brandeis, a department store in downtown Omaha. They had told me about the escalator there, and thought I would like to ride it. They said when I was done that a city

bus would be outside, and I could ride it back to their place. I was astonished at the activity. I cautiously stepped on the escalator and off I went. I couldn’t get over how many people there were. Up and down I went for several hours. Finally, I had enough and stepped outside and onto the bus. I looked out the windows at the people getting on and off the bus. During the trip, I enjoyed watching other people and looking at all the different buildings that we drove by. The bus driver stopped the bus and came back to my seat and asked where I was getting off at. I told him and he mumbled something I did not understand but I did hear him tell another bus driver who was taking over that he would have to help me. I rode around for a while until that bus driver came back to me and said he was going in for the evening and I would need to get off too. I told him where I was going, and he said he didn’t drive there but would give me two stops to choose from. At the first one I said no, nothing looked familiar. I had no choice but to get off at the next stop. I ed that I heard airplanes where I was staying and off in the distance, I heard planes. I began to walk toward the sounds in the distance. It was twilight and darkness was coming so I decided to quicken my pace. Finally, it was dark all around me and I still had no idea where I was. The noise from the planes was farther away than I thought, and it still seemed like I had a long way to go. Finally, in desperation, I decided to walk up to someone’s house. I explained that I was lost, and the man wanted to know the address. “We don’t have addresses where I come from, but I am staying with Dick Ellersick,” I said. To my surprise, he knew who Dick was and where he lived. Dick and Irene were relieved and surprised when I arrived. I believe someone was watching over me. It turned out that I was on the other side of the lake. Those thoughts were with me as I rode to Omaha. I was happy at being reunited with my family but anxious about my new environment. A new way of life was beginning to unfold. I felt helpless and scared. I wasn’t sure that I was ready for this new life waiting for me. There would be some interesting times and big changes ahead for me.

CHAPTER 20

Further Along

Whatever the news or the events of the day the seasons continue to me along the way As I travel along, I look out the window of the car Staring at the long rows of corn and the trees of windbreaks from afar I am worried and doubts of doom swirl in my mind What can I do when all I know and love is left behind Scared and afraid, leaving all that I have ever known for a life in the city and far, far, away from my “old Nebraska Home”

By Steve Amos (and EK)

M y p arents had moved to Carter Lake, Iowa, which is right next to Omaha, by the airport. They knew Dick Ellersick from Comstock and rented a home at the end of a block on Lindwood in Carter Lake. While Carter Lake is on the Nebraska side of the river, it’s actually part of Iowa. Anyway, all the homes looked the same to me. I never associated numbers on the house or street names since there weren’t any where I grew up. I had always found my way around by landmarks. It was very confusing to me. To help me become acclimated to the city, my parents enrolled me in summer

school at Omaha Tech. I had two classes, history and English. They were easy enough. I had to do a book report and reading The Yearling and doing a report on it. Mom dropped me off and I would walk down to 16th Street and catch a bus to Locust and walk home from there. I made friends with a couple of guys from East Omaha and so I had someone to associate with. Dick Ellersick, Charlies son, was selling homes and he hired me to mow the lawns of a couple of models on Dorene Street. They were across the street from a home where there was a family with four boys. They were similar in age to me and the oldest, Ed, helped me figure out that I would be going to school in the fall at Thomas Jefferson in Council Bluffs and where I needed to be to catch the school bus. Ed’s father had throat cancer and his voice box had been removed so he had a device he held up to his throat to talk with. He was a bartender for the Virginia Café downtown. Ed’s mother took care of the house and children and was an angel. She told me later that her boys used to mow the lawns for Dick and were disappointed when they were told that I would be mowing them. However, when she saw that the soles of my shoes were coming off, my clothes were frayed, and I looked like someone who needed a job, it was okay. In addition to going to summer school, I was kept busy with odd jobs. Dick had me erect a redwood fence around his yard. I discovered that a few inches down the soil was hardpan. I thought I had hit concrete and many of the holes I dug required me to chisel down the hole before I sunk the post. I finally got them all in and the fence up and painted and headed home. I was anxious to be home because my uncles Ike and Bruce were coming to see us. As I entered the front door, Dad met me with some terrible news. They had been in a car wreck and Bruce was dead, but Ike was still alive. We were going to St Paul where the wreck was. Mom cried all the way and when we got there we learned that Ike had died. It was a dark time for me and of course the family. Although they were my uncles, they were not that much older than me. I had grown close to Ike and he had taught me a lot. I was in a bit of limbo for a while since it had not been very long that my grandparents had been in the new home. I wasn’t sure if I would be living there

or staying with my parents. One of Mom’s sisters decided she could move in with them. I would remain in the city. The old hymn, Further Along, played in my head as other changes were happening. School was a big change for me. I had a class of six in Comstock, but when I enrolled at Thomas Jefferson, my Junior year, the class was 600. I was in a daze. In my home room, every morning over the speaker, the principal would ask for Amos Stevens to come to the office. I thought to myself, how I would like to meet this kid since we had the same name, only backwards. After a few weeks, and bored with school, I decided to go home and watch the World Series on TV. I did not realize how far it was and by the time I got home the game was almost over. The next day in homeroom, the teacher asked where I went the day before. I said that I went home to watch the World Series and she said I could not skip school that way. When she said my name, it occurred to her that the principal had actually been calling for me, so she sent me to his office. The principal was not happy with me as he had been calling my name since school started. I didn’t say anything and just listened to him scold me. He felt that I should stay an extra hour after school for the next four weeks as punishment. I asked how I was to get home and he said a bus would be available. It turned out to be a bit of good luck as I met Dave, who was active in sports and events in Carter Lake. He asked if I played basketball or softball and things of that sort. I said I would like to but didn’t have transportation. He had a car and would pick me up. His nickname for me was “Billy Bunkin,” a cartoon character in the newspaper under the comic strip “Gil Thorp.” Billy Bunkin was a hillbilly who moved to the city and played football. When we had a carful of guys, he asked me what kind of music I listened to and I told him I liked country on K triple O. He turned to the station and it was playing, “Dang Me” by Roger Miller. It was the first time I had heard the song and they were laughing and asked me what I thought. I telling them that I thought it would be a hit. I was starting to feel included to the events of big city living. Still I could not help but feel like a square peg in a round hole. I was still a country boy and my dreams were about returning to the country. This would remain my dream for most of my life despite growing, or trying to grow, accustomed to the city. The

“boy from Comstock” was growing into a new chapter in his life.

“So it was, the boy from Comstock rode out of the country and into town Fear of the unknown and what was around The city lights from the stores and shops shined bright Their glow dimmed the stars in the sky at night The buses belched black smoke and there is a smell of gasoline Dimming senses and inspiring a yearning for nature again People, buses, cars, the like I never knew Made life scary about what I was to do Slowly and surely, the sun would shine on me I must overcome this hopelessness and stay positive I was together again with family and wasn’t alone but my heart would always be nearby my old Nebraska home”

By Steve Amos (and EK)

The End