50th Anniversary
 
Harry J. Briscoe   Mary Catherine Briscoe
 
June 6, 1942
St. Louis, Mo.
 
 “And what is so rare as a day in June.
Then, if ever, come perfect days
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over if softly her warm ear lays”
 
James Russell Lowell
 
 June 6, 1992
Topeka, Kansas
 
 
Index
 
Where it All Began, 1942 – 1992………...Section 1
Where I heard this Melody, 1917 – 1938……Section 2
As I Remember 1917 – 1942………….Section 3
 
 
"WHERE IT ALL BEGAN"
1942 – 1992
By Mary Catherine Briscoe
Each time we leave Amarillo after a visit with friends and a stop at Llano Cemetery, I am prompted to record some of the feelings I experience, as nostalgia strikes, reminding me of the close ties Amarillo provided our family life.
This was our first real home, as a family. Harry had a good job; we had a happy family life, with children, relatives near­by; Uncle and Aunt Lena, cousins Jerry and Mary Elizabeth, Bro­ther Jesse and Brady, and their many relatives and friends who "took us in".
The beginning was June 6, 1942, when Harry and I were married in St. Louis, MO, at Old St. Mary's Cathedral in the rectory. This was war time. Harry was stationed at the U. S. Naval Ammu­nition Depot in Crane, IN. He had obtained a "leave" for the week-end to travel to St. Louis for the purpose of getting married, as his "leave" stated. I was working in Topeka and also had the week-end off for that purpose.
Our relationship had been unsettled for the five years we had known one another. Religious differences seemed too difficult to solve. Harry was raised in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), and I in the Roman Catholic. We had met in Topeka where Harry was in the Public Relations Department of the Santa Fe. I was employed as a secretary in the general offices of John Morrell & Co. We enjoyed each others company, the era of the
Big Bands, ball games, eating out, picnicking and visits to each other's families. Our relationship was built on love, honesty and respect, and survived moves to Oklahoma City for Harry, later Chicago, and finally enlistment in the U. S. Navy. We continued to enjoy get-togethers in one place or another, and finally de­cided we were mature enough to make marriage work. What a marvelous decision:
After our week-end together in St. Louis, Harry traveled back to his base to await my arrival in 30 days. It was necessary that I return to Topeka to announce our marriage and to work the required "notice" time to receive my back pay of $100.
What a reception in Crane, IN.! Harry, with seven Navy buddies, gathered for a steak dinner at a construction site restaurant, and a beautiful silver carving set for a gift. Harry carried me over the threshold of our trailer which was to be our home for a couple of years. The Navy provided this housing in a court with well planned walkways and utility buildings.

 
Immediately, I went to work on the base as a secretary, and soon was in charge of the Stenographic Pool of 16 women. I was given on the job training for more advanced responsibility in the way of the government.
We had many friends, some with little children, so it was a happy atmosphere, even with rationing. One couple, Ethel and Rollin Brown from Wauconda, IL had a car. We went places with them, even Chicago, Indianapolis and Cincinnati, when Rollin could get gas coupons. Another couple had an old funeral limou­sine which carried a crowd to neighboring county fairs and state parks. Navy buses took us to the cities of Bloomington and Bed­ford. There was no need to leave the base, however, as all ser­vices were available - groceries, limited meats, laundry and cleaning, movies and church.
Brother Harry Brown had finished high school in Hartford, KS and came to Indiana seeking summer employment. He lived with us until he enlisted in the Merchant Marines. Brother Lt. Norbert Brown had married Jeanie Finfrock in Logansport, IN.
We exchanged visits a couple of times as Norbert was stationed nearby. Brother Jesse Briscoe, USNR, stopped over with us in route to another assignment. My sister, Virginia, had married Delbert Stevenson, June 5, 1943, at his Army base in Georgia, and stopped to visit us on her way back to Kansas, after Delbert was assigned overseas duty.
In the fall of 1944, Harry was sent to sea, on the USS Flaherty, a destroyer escort in the Atlantic. Because of my job, I re­mained on at the base for a few more months, and then went to my parents in Hartford, KS to await the arrival of our first child,
Mary K. Briscoe was born in St. Mary's Hospital, Emporia, KS on February 25, 1945. Grandma and Grandpa Brown opened their home and hearts to us, and we were surrounded by relatives. Helen and Albert, with their growing family, were struggling on their farm, as all the rest, with much faith and hope for the future. War time was grim, with rationing and separations. That spring, Grandma had a bumper crop of strawberries, but we couldn't get sugar.
My five brothers - Buddy, Norbert, Justin, Fritz and Harry were all away in the service. Norbert was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed. He was serving on the West Virginia. Anxiously, we awaited word of his safety for almost 30 days before the good news came. In the meantime, we read the daily published fatal­ity list of Pearl Harbor, and were encouraged each day to not find his name. Buddy served in the European conflict, the Azores for four years. Justin and Fritz were in the Navy in the Pacific and Harry was in the Merchant Marines. Justin and Fritz were ab­le to be together some of the time in the Aleutian Islands. Be­sides my husband and my five brothers, three brothers-in-law served in dangerous positions and we were blessed again by the safe return of them all; however, Robert Briscoe and Delbert Stevenson with the Purple Heart.

Gan Gan had moved from New London, MO. to Milwaukee, WI where she had taken a job as companion to the mother of the president of Milwaukee Downer Girls' School. This position was made available: able to her through her cousin, Nell White, from New London, who was the dietitian for the college. What a blessing that her time was occupied there while all three of her sons were away.
Finally, in June 1945, Harry got a leave and was able to come to Kansas to visit us and to see our pretty little daughter for the first time. What a joyous reunion for a week!
In August, 1945, when the war ended, Harry was discharged. He called from Norfolk, VA for Mary K. and me to meet him in Chicago, We were anxious. Grandma and Grandpa Brown drove us to catch the train in Emporia. Harry was unable to meet us at the Chicago station as planned. I missed getting the message as the station office closed at midnight and our train was late. I took a taxi to the YMCA Hotel in downtown Chicago. Harry had lived there so I was familiar with the name. I was lucky to find a room there. The next morning, I telephoned the Santa Fe office. I knew Mr. Roehrig's name and got the message that Harry was detained at Great Lakes for a few more days. I telephoned my Navy friend, Ethel Brown, in Wauconda, IL, who was there awaiting her Rollin return from the Pacific, also the birth of their son, Gary. She instructed me to take the bus to Wauconda to stay with her until we met Harry at Great Lakes five days later. After that, we met another Navy couple, Gen and Ralph Coleman, and their daughter, Carol, at their cottage in Wisconsin for several days of remin­iscing. Ralph had just returned from duty in France.
Another train ride to Kansas to contemplate the move to Chicago, Harry's Santa Fe job in Chicago that he had been away from for four years, (each Christmas he was away, the Santa Fe sent him a $10 bonus), a place to live and the adjustment again to a new way of life. Before that, we visited in Missouri, Harry's home, where we got some clothes for him to start civilian life again.
Harry located an apartment on the south side, 4333 Greenwood, on the condition we buy its furnishings, one item of which was the china closet we still use. We were just a few blocks from Lake Michigan and near the Illinois Central R.R. (commuter train) for transportation to the city and Harry's work. We had never had a car, and didn't need one now. Public transportation was conven­ient and we had railroad passes to take us almost anywhere we could manage to go.
Our apartment was the first floor of a flat, with basement. None of it was in good condition, but we were happy. I had never live in a crowded city and was reprimanded once by a high rise apartment neighbor for shaking my dust mop outdoors. I was supposed to do it into the trash can.
A Navy couple, Mary and Bob Balhatchet and their son, Robbie, were searching for a place to live. We rented them our basement with our kitchen privileges which we shared for a couple of months.
Mary K. had a tiny back yard, with sand box. She loved to water the squirrels. They were tame and would even look into our din­ing room from the window sill. She called them “scooters". We had nice neighbors who visited with us from their second and third floor windows. The Gregory's, in the apartment above ours, had children whose company Mary K. enjoyed. Edna and Bob Stewart lived next door. They loved Mary K. and took her for ice cream down to the corner. They had a car and occasionally took us for a drive and sometimes to church. Edna also attended St. Ambrose Catholic Church just a few blocks away. The rest of the time we walked. Bob Stewart was a pattern maker, but his main interest was the Clara L. Mine in Colorado, in which we bought stock.
The grocery store was a block away, as was the meat market where we still stood in line for our ration. Gradually, we were able to buy more with our money. Shoes and sugar were still the hardest to get. Horse drawn hawkers moved through the neighborhoods with fresh vegetables, milk and bread. Ice cream trolleys appeared; daily walks to the playground near the lake; train rides to the bustle of the City - all these things made Chicago an excit­ing and happy place to be. We were blessed.
Cousin Jerry Briscoe, from Amarillo, was a student at Northwestern University and visited us frequently. He always brought books for Mary K., and sent her some after he was a student at the University of Economics in London. The Hummel prints in our kite en are framed postcards he sent her. Jerry is now a Political Science professor at the University of the Pacific, Stockton, CA.
Brother Harry Brown came to Chicago and lived with us while attending the Manley Trade and Vocational School, from which he gradua­ted in cabinet making. He rode to school with Bob Stewart. While attending school, he worked part time at Sears, building lawn furniture. Here he got the pattern for and built his first hobby horse which he named "Citation" since "Citation" had won the Ken­tucky Derby in 1948. Sears kept the horse, but Harry has used the pattern many times. Harry made several nice pieces of furniture for us - a desk, end table and the bookcase that holds our Harvard Classics.
Norbert, Jeanie and Ethel Kay visited us. We went back and forth on the train. Norbert was an engineer on the Pennsylvania R.R. and came into Chicago regularly. He became interested in Harry's woodworking school, and managed to take construction courses there to become a contractor and builder.
Missouri relatives visited. Aunt Lena came from Amarillo. Everyone loved to come to the City. Aunt Lena liked our habit of hav­ing a toasted cheese sandwich for a bed snack which she quickly labeled “dream cakes". Grandma and Grandpa Brown came from Kan­sas on the train. They thought the City was dreadfully dirty. It was. We cleaned our wallpaper with a gummy ball of stuff that turned black. Coal dust and soot polluted the air around us. 600 people lived in our square block, and I think all had coal furnaces. Mama couldn't imagine eating a chicken I purchased at the open market, with its head and feet still intact, al­though it was drawn. Meat was not packaged then. She insisted I soak it overnight in salt water before cooking. Mae and Leo Brinkman came. Navy friends visited frequently as we did them. Many of them were from the area. Harry occasionally brought the traveling male secretaries home for dinner.
June 12, 1947, on schedule, Harry James Briscoe, Jr. arrived at Lewis Memorial Hospital to make us a family. A fine baby boy! Everyone rejoiced. Our lives continued - happy - satis­fied. Even though it was hot summer, I dressed the baby in a beautiful hand knit sweater-cap set that had been given to me. Harry J. has not been able to tolerate wool since.
Sunday outings were to the parks and zoo; we could ride the trains into the City and get a transfer for 1O¢ so we took ad­vantage and visited museums and galleries, ate hot dogs and ice cream, and sometimes had dinner in China town. We went to con­certs in Grant Park. There were so many free cultural attrac­tions in the City. Train trips to Missouri and Kansas to see grandparents was always a treat; sometimes at Thanksgiving time we never went away at Christmastime, as we always felt it best to have our own traditions for our family. On Mary K's first Christmas, Harry bought a doll stroller and was so excited with his purchase; he gave it to her when he got home with it, not saving it for Christmas. Harry J. got a tricycle before he could walk.
Helen's and Albert's family continued to grow and we loved visiting on their farm. There was so much to do there - with a creek horses, cattle, chickens, a barn, an upstairs - all things for healthy childhood memories.
In February 1949, Harry was given a job on the road as Transpor­tation Inspector at Amarillo, TX. From the Chicago office and our little home, we packed our few belongings on the train, spent one night in the Hotel Harrison in Chicago, before board­ing the train for Amarillo, and our home at 703 Sunset Terrace. We spent the first week at the Blackstone Hotel before moving into our house, a white bungalow with a picket fence around the back yard and a porch swing on the front porch which was cover­ed with a fragrant honeysuckle vine. We had a swing, sand box, trees, fresh air, grass, flowers, playhouse, fine neighbors with children up and down the street where the front sidewalk was a safe tricycle path. We went able to have a bird dog now, and a cat. One day when Harry J. was riding his tricycle on the front walk, I asked Mary K. to keep an eye on him. She came running into the house and said 11 I'll keep my eye on him until he went around the corner and I don’t know where he is now". A big bed of poppies were about to bloom in the back yard, Harry J. picked all of the buds and was playing with the little round balls.
The bus stop on the corner provided transportation to Harry's office downtown, church and stores. Grocery shopping was with­in walking distance. A nearby park provided for an outing and a picnic lunch. Our house had a new stove, refrigerator, wash­er and dryer. Railroad friends made life pleasant and became part of our family. Relatives and friends came to visit. We were happy and thankful.
 
August 19, 1949, Molly Anne Briscoe was born at St. Anthony's Hospital - a beautiful daughter, another thrill of joy! Rela­tives and friends joined in the celebration. Grandma Brown came to share the occasion. Uncle and Aunt Lena came with a freezer of home-made peach ice cream. Jesse and Brady came, and I'll always remember Brady's words "Mary, if you don't want her, I'll take her". Brady had one son, Virgil Speer, who lived with his grandparents. One Thanksgiving, he and a Navy buddy had Thanksgiving dinner with us. Life continued at its fullest.
At Thanksgiving time, we boarded the train to Kansas to show off our new addition and again visit the other relatives and cousins on the farm. Such fun and attention our children en­joyed. Virginia's and Delbert's family was growing too, as well as Buddy's and Eileen's, Justin's and Marian's. They all lived in the area so we could see them each time we went to Kansas.
Harry had arranged with Rollin Brown to deliver a new Chevro­let to us from his father's business in Wauconda, IL and drive it to New London, MO. where we met him and were ready to start back to our home in Amarillo - with a new car to add to our pleasure.
Christmas anticipation was upon us; plans for the children; a new baby stocking to hang on the mantel; gatherings of relatives church festivities; a new doll with buggy for Mary K.an elec­tric train for Harry J. (which he was not supposed to touch ­just look at); and stuffed toys for the baby.
In the preparations, we noticed Mary K. had a slight limp or maybe an uncontrolled movement of her right foot. (She had com­plained of a hurt in her heel). On examination, the doctor found her to be somewhat anemic, so recommended a food supple­ment and we continued as before, our full life. The uncontrolled movement increased in her legs. One evening, as we trimmed the tree, our family doctor, with a pediatric specialist, visited our home to observe Mary K's movements. The suggestion was made that after Christmas we hospitalize her for tests.
Early in January 1950, Mary K. was hospitalized at St. Anthony's Hospital. After days of testing, her problem was diagnosed as Rheumatic Fever, which would require up to five to six months of bedfast treatment. As we prepared to meet this demand on our lives, Gan Gan arrived from Missouri volunteering to help pass the time for Mary K. by reading to her and telling her stories. The older children of the neighborhood came regularly to read to her and divert her attention. We gave her the front bedroom with a window to the porch where she could call to the passing children and not be completely isolated. Harry J. and Molly Anne were a joy to her and she welcomed them to her room which was filling with gifts - a miniature doll collection, music boxes, cards, expressions of love and from everywhere.
Harry was busy with his job and out on the road much of the week. We continued the schedule of treatment as recommended, but after weeks, we recognized deterioration rather than progress. The doctor came. He immediately ordered hospitalization. In a few short moments, the diagnosis was unmistakably leukemia. Our hearts sank; the blow almost more than we could bear. On our knees, we prayed for strength and understanding.
Fortunately, in Amarillo, among relatives and many friends, all willing and ready to help any time and especially now in this great need, we called on them all. Uncle Jesse gave a direct blood transfusion, the first of 17 Mary K. had. We must take her to Baylor' Hospital in Dallas under the care of Dr. Joseph Hill, a blood specialist. During a 'phone call to Dr. Hill from our pediatrician, I remember Dr. Hill asking if we could afford treatment. Our doctor replied "the father has a job". Fortunately, we found we had a “10 dreaded diseases insurance policy” - Leukemia being one of them, which covered many of these expensive treatments.
Harry was able to get away from his work long enough to drive us to Dallas. Of course, I would go to be with r'1ary K. But, the other children? Leave Harry J. and Molly Anne? How could I? Helen wrote that she was unable to come to help, but if we would send the children to her, she would care for them. Grand ma and Grandpa Brown offered to help, so the decision to send Harry J. on the train, with his tricycle, in the company of Frank Walsh, a railroad man from Chicago, to Kansas, was made and carried out. Harry J. was not unhappy, but Harry said it was the hardest thing he ever had to do. Later, Frank and Lorraine Walsh lived in our house in Amarillo for three months while we were away in Dallas.
For a time, Molly Anne, only five months old, was left in the care of Tenola, a black lady who had helped us and loved our baby. Molly Anne came the closest to having a Nanny in Tenola. Maybe that's why she wished many times through her life that she had been born a princess. Under Aunt Lena's supervision, Tenola cared for Molly Anne until Aunt Lena could make arrangements to take her on the train to Grandparents Brown in Kansas, so at least she and her brother could be together.
Meanwhile, in Dallas, at Baylor Hospital, Mary K. was being tested and checked, treated and loved and cared for. She even seemed happy at times except when dreading time for the painful ACTH shots every four hours. We took wheel chair walks around the beautiful hospital grounds. On one of these outings, we were approached by a bearded old man who suggested I put a copper bracelet on Mary K's arm for a cure.
It being spring, the magnolias were in bloom. Many children were hospitalized with rare ailments, with parents trying to cope.
Harry must return to work so these expensive treatments could continue. I took a room in a nearby house with a meal, where I met people to talk to. I could walk to church services dur­ing Lent at a nearby church and meditate in the hospital chapel.
I wrote many letters to Harry J and Molly Anne, thinking we'd all be back together soon. How I longed to see my family! Now, I wish I had taken them all with me and hired someone as needed for their care; but at the time, the other way seemed the best decision. Harry called often to check on us and Mary K's progress which was beginning to improve. We were hoping and praying for a remission which would give time for more sophisticated treatment to be discovered. At Easter time one of the nurses brought Mary K. a new pair of white shoes because she wanted them.
Toward the end of May, we were hopeful of getting to go home, which we did. Mary K. was in remission and well enough to be left for a few days in Amarillo with Harry and relatives while I went to Kansas on the train to pick up Harry J. and Molly Ann Harry J. had become attached to his new surroundings and had misgivings about another change. Molly Anne had changed. She he lots of curly hair was standing, and happy with whoever cared for her. Helen offered to let Ida Jo, 13, go home with us, so the four of us got on the train for Amarillo. Once again, we were all together, picnicking, playing in the yard, visiting relatives.
One month later - in early July - Mary K. again needed hospitalization under Dr. Hill. Grandma Brown came to Amarillo and Mary K. and I rushed to Dallas. Harry waved his billfold at me as we taxied down the runway. He had gone to the bank, arrange for the plane tickets and money, but forgot to give it to me.
I had not a dime. Harry remembered that Mary K. had some money about $18, in a little bank with her, but I didn't think of it. I knew I'd be O.K. if I just got Mary K. to the hospital - the taxi driver needn't know I didn't have any money; but before I got off the plane, a kind lady cashed a check for me, and money was waiting at the hospital when we arrived.
Mary K's condition deteriorated rapidly now - the treatment slower to react. After about another month, the only thing to do was return home under our family doctor's care, which we did the final week of Mary K's life was in St. Anthony's Hospital in Amarillo, always conscious, but under an oxygen tent. Suddenly, she was asleep forever, at 7:00 p.m. August 16, 1950. Funeral services were held at St. Mary's Church with burial in Llano Cemetery; Lot 70, Block K, Single No.4. We had visited this park-like spot many times to feed the ducks on the nearby water way. Mary K. had expressed at times "This is such a pretty place I'd like to live here".
August 19, 1950 - Molly Anne's first birthday. Her godmother, Aunt Virginia, arrived with a pretty decorated cake, and we had a party at her little table in the back yard, with lots of relatives and grandparents and picture taking.
Now it was time to get ourselves reorganized and begin life anew. Molly Anne was walking, Harry J., 3, guided her around, as Mary K. had done him. We went shopping again, to the park, the ice cream store, and vacationed in the mountains of New, Mexico and Colorado.
In January, 1951, Harry was transferred to Waynoka, OK as Trainmaster. We hated to leave Amarillo, but didn't hesitate to follow the job. We lived near the railroad tracks in a large house with playing room inside and out. We made new friends; relatives came to visit, and we learned the way of Okie's. Waynoka had sand dunes south of town - a favorite spot for hik­ing and playing.
Harry J. learned much about trains there - we were so close to them. Harry could take us to the yards to see the huge 5000 Class steam locomotives. We became accustomed to the sounds of those giants, day and night. Often Harry J. would sit up in his sleep and watch out his window when they went by. There are many opportunities in a small town, when you are small at least. Here, Harry J. could go to the movie house alone on Saturday afternoon. Finally, Molly decided she was old enough to go with him, although he didn't think it was a good idea. About 10 minutes into the movie, she decided she had enough and got up to leave. Dutifully, Harry J. accompanied her home and vowed to never take her again.
One day Harry J. and Molly Anne were walking to town. A neigh­bor, Mrs. Andrick, inquired of them where they were going. “To buy our daddy a birthday present", they replied. Mrs. Andrick then asked "how old is he" and they replied "as old as our mama”.
On July 4, 1951, after heavy rains, we were warned that a seven foot wall of water was headed our way - a flood - everyone on our street was to evacuate. Harry had gone to the office; the children and I, the dog and cat with kittens had to be rescued. Two men carne into the house; took the children and the dog next door to a two story house, while I frantically worked picking up the ends of the curtains, the bedspreads and area rugs. I heard the cat meowing under the house, and when I opened a trap door in the floor, she carried the kittens to me, one at a time and we saved them. As I left the house with these same two men the water was above my waist as we stepped off the porch, and was running like a river in our street. Dog houses, lawn furniture, rugs, anything, was floating by. We were safe upstairs at our neighbors. Rescue teams and individuals in boats were on hand. I saw my elderly neighbor leaving her house on a road grader.
Harry made it home by crossing that swift stream leaving his shoes in the other side. Later in the day, when he returned for his shoes, they were gone. The high water, 18 inches in our house, lasted about eight hours. Then began the chore of washing out the muddy silt. We used the garden hose. Pans floated out of the cupboards when we opened the doors. The floors warped, everything was a mess. The children begged for a bath. That had to wait. A sudden scare was when we couldn’t get a response from Molly to our calls - the fear that the trap door in the floor had been uncovered and she slipped in. She was sitting behind a chair. We were all required to have typhoid shots.
Here, I encountered a bum or hobo who had been riding on a freight train. He came to the door wanting food. I quickly made him a ham and egg sandwich and he was on his way.
The house we were renting sold, and we had to move to a differ­ent place. It was a nice neighborhood too, with some new children to play with. This house had a concrete bathtub which took the entire tank of water to heat. Our landlord replaced it soon. Harry J. helped a neighbor lady in her greenhouse fill flower pots with a soil-sand mixture. He used his little sand box shovel. He loved to go there to work. Some neighbor children brought a little fox someone had captured to show our children. Molly immediately found a box to put it in. We attended church in a little Mexican Mission church north of town. The priest took three meals a day with parishioners once a month. He announced when he would be with us, and at what time. Sometimes, we went to the cathedral in Alva, OK with our friends, the Murphy's.
Many railroaders came and went and sometimes stopped over with their wives as they were passing through. We continued to have new friends and activities. Hilda and Don Brown, Bill and Alan joined us many times. Frank's store had everything we needed; a fine hardware and grocery store supplied those needs. One day Harry J. decided to go to a different barber shop, but stopped by the original one for a piece of candy. The barber asked him where he had been lately and Harry J. replied "I've been getting my hair cut across the street".
November 21, 1952, David Lawrence Briscoe was born at Clapper Memorial Hospital - another blessing - a pretty little boy and our own Okie! He had so much attention. It was an 18-bed hos­pital, well-staffed and he was the only baby there. Hilda and Don Brown kept Harry J. and Molly Anne overnight. Then, Harry brought them to the hospital to see their new brother and me. As they peered at David through the window in the nursery, Harry asked Harry J. what he thought of him. Harry J's reply was "He looks like he's going to be a lot of trouble."
Then to Grandma's. Harry took the children on the train to Kansas for a couple of weeks. Harry was then called out on a derailment in a snowstorm, at Thanksgiving time, so David and I were kept in the hospital for two weeks. When we did get home, and get Harry J. and Molly back, a fine young Spanish lady came to help - Rita Valencia. She was a jewel - could take over anything I would let her do. She loved to baby sit, and danced the baby in her arms around the room as she sang to the record player. David has always loved music. George and Vivian Sells, and Vicky, lived in nearby Shattuck and we often exchanged visit with them.
Christmas was at hand, it’s always easy to remember when there’s a baby to plan for and another stocking to hang. Molly got a doll and immediately put the doll in the chair and got in the box herself where she spent much of the day. Harry J. was busy with a western outfit complete with chaps and a gun. Rita brought us two dozen tamales for Christmas breakfast. Here we acquired our taste for good Mexican food.  
April, 1953, Harry was transferred back to Amarillo. We moved to our same nice little bungalow with the fenced yard, trees, flowers, nearby park and school just a block away. Harry J. would be starting school in the fall at Margaret Wills. Now that he was five, he was old enough to pay 5¢ to ride the city bus. He loved that. Being in school, he got in on many things a trip to the Air Base to tour the facilities and have hot dogs for lunch with them. He loved the process of growing up and be­ing responsible for himself. Maxine and Lawrence Sankey were again our extended family and visited us wherever we lived.
The sound of a bell a block away meant the ice cream wagon was coming. Harry J. and Molly scurried around for their nickels to buy ice cream. One day Molly came back crying and didn't have any ice cream. Sno Jo had stepped on her toe. Drive-ins were becoming popular. On one occasion, Harry J. had a milk shake. He leaned over the front seat and spilled it in David's face. David was lying on the seat between Harry and me. David choked and shivered, and Harry vowed to never again eat in the car at a drive-in. Our bird dog loved an ice cream cone. The child­ren liked watching Patsy get every taste of the good stuff from the bottom of the cone with her long tongue.
Molly enrolled in ballet and was in numerous productions with all the finery of costumes, satin, fringe, net and flowers. She was a pretty ballerina. This year we had a group children's picture made while they all still had their baby teeth.
1954, Uncle, 80, passed away. We missed his drop-in visits. Sometimes he took Harry J. or Molly with him to grocery shop. He was a big tease. When he caught me ironing he said I should be sending Harry's shirts to the professional laundry. He was such a sophisticated gentleman - we were proud to call him Uncle. That same year, in the summer, we were called to Kansas as Grandpa Brown died at age 74.
Spring, 1955, the Salk vaccine for polio was available to first grade students. Harry J. took the vaccine, as I volunteered at his school that entire day getting signatures of parents who wanted this for their children. That week, we attended a school picnic on a hot day. Many children were playing together in the park. David, age 2 1/2, was sort of restless and feverish. On examination, our doctor diagnosed RosioIa, a common childhood ailment. Medication relieved some, but in about three days, when David got out of bed, his legs would not hold him up. Immediately, we took him to the hospital where polio was diag­nosed. Weeks and weeks of treatment followed, including the Sister Kenny method, which was hot packs.
Progress was slow, but finally after a month David was released. He had not regained the use of his right leg, however. This would now require daily therapy. Each day we took him to Northwest Texas Hospital for an hour of therapy. This became a fun thing for David as he had lots of attention and liked climbing the jungle gym type equipment, exercise on the powder board and working with the excellent therapists. David was fitted with full length brace for his right leg. He managed it better than his parents did, and he continued with his outstanding personality and daring endeavors. Our lives were much the same as 1 fore. We fished, played ball, vacationed, lived. (The 10 dreaded diseases insurance policy included polio).
In the fall of 1955, Molly was ready for school and followed t brother to Margaret Wills to enter first grade. She had many pretty dresses to wear and made more new friends. A skating theme for a Christmas play found me volunteering to make 30 costumes of red flannel with white fur trim. Once the children were in school, there was no end to volunteer work there. We didn't escape the measles, chicken pox and mumps that year. I also got the mumps.
Summer, 1956~ another move - this one to La Junta, CO. On our summer vacations driving through Colorado, I always pictured La Junta as the last place I'd want to live. But, as usual, we loved La Junta - more fine friends, nice house, new environment, closer to the mountains and a new school. All worked out well.
The first chore was to find a doctor for David. A Dr. Robert Young in Pueblo was recommended and we were completely satis­fied. Again, we began the weekly trips to Pueblo, 60 miles away, for David's therapy. Once a week therapy was available in La Junta at the Mennonite Hospital with a young man from the V.A. Hospital in Las Animas. Therapy was recommended regularly for at least the next three years. It was carried out daily a home. Hope of restoring the damaged muscles after that time was questionable. After that it was necessary to work on strengthening other muscles, if possible. We sought the ex­treme. The difference in leg length was now becoming visible and a lift was required on the right shoe for balance and the fear of curvature of the spine.
Also, David was now ready for kindergarten. Mrs. McCann was the finest teacher, and I can remember visiting school during art appreciation class and was thrilled to hear David identify "Mona Lisa". In 1990, David got to see the original Mona Lisa in Paris at the Louvre. At that early age, he had permission to ride his bike to school to gain independence. One morning, he returned home twice claiming he couldn't make it up the hill. I walked back with him and bodily delivered him to his class room.
Harry J. became active in Boy Scouts. I helped as den mother. He had an avid interest in the Kiva, and looked forward to the time when he could become a Koshare. We moved before he had that chance. Don and June Jackson, Julie, Jill and Jon became a part of our family and we enjoyed visiting back and forth impromptu with them. Job associations were close and we became lasting friends. The Santa Fe Family existed everywhere we lived.
In La Junta, we belonged to a square dance group, a Super­visor's Club, and enjoyed family life. A nearby lake gave access to fishing and picnicking.
Silky, a German shepherd puppy, arrived by train from Albu­querque, NM, a gift of Uncle Harry Brown, who was umpiring in the Western Association League headquartered there. Silky's registered name was “Silky Von Kiva Tok". From a black ball of fur he grew into a large beauty, a marvelous pet and guard dog. Our cat, Midnight, and he were good friends and slept together.
Colorado, being an attraction for tourists, made our place a convenient stopping point for travelers going east or west, and we enjoyed numerous guests. We often took our guests to the Royal Gorge, which was an easy day's trip. We enjoyed a fish­ing day high in the mountains at Alamosa occasionally. The cooler fresh air was always a welcome change, although La Junta had a good climate. The drinking water wasn't. Fritz, Dorothy and Denise accompanied us on one of those outings. None of us had jackets and it got very cold. I had a large blanket which we cut up so everyone could have a wrap. We were comfortable.
One winter, before Christmas, we drove to Denver for the big parade. Here we ran into Art Evans, a 1938 friend. We also visited the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.
One of the biggest snows I've almost ever known came while we were in La Junta. The Santa Fe even lost a train for a time. Harry was called out frequently on this job, once just as we sat down to Thanksgiving dinner. Cousin Mary Elizabeth and family were there from Colorado Springs. Hamp and Fern Hays visited us from Denver. Aunt Edna and Uncle Bob from Chicago had moved to Denver and they came.
One Christmas Eve, Santa Claus came while our friends, Hazel and Bob Shaw, and her mother, Mrs. Green, were visiting us. David was so inquisitive of Santa Claus he wanting to know how he arrived and where he was going from there. When Santa left, leaving the pillow case he had carried his surprises in on the floor at the door, David quickly picked it up, ran to the porch calling to Santa that he had left his bag.
The children were all involved in activities of their age here. Molly was in Brownies with which I helped. Before first grade, David attended preschool under the Nuns at St. Patrick's School. In a school play, David was a jack-in-the-box. He missed his queue and failed to pop up on time. But he did pop up. Harry J. suffered a spur on his heel and had to spend a night in the hos­pital after having it removed. He left the hospital on crutches but quickly found they slowed him down too much.
Summer, 1957 - we are all off to school - U.S.C. at Los Angeles, where Harry attended a six-week course sponsored by the Santa Fe the Institute of Business Economics. A wonderfu1 first-class trip on the train, and accommodations in the dormitory. Harry and I had a room; Harry J. and David shared one; and Molly was housed with another young lady nearby. Children under 10 qualified for babysitting services, which I readily took advantage of. They were entertained at the pool, the playgrounds and the beach. They were served the kind of food they liked most, while Harry and I enjoyed gourmet meals in the formal dining room with first class fare and service and in the company of the other 32 other Santa Fe couples from along the line. Laughter and happy time: were most welcome after a day of study for Harry, and a tiring day for me as I accompanied every tour to every corner o~ the area. What a summer! On our return to La Junta, we quickly autoed to Kansas, as we had missed our summer visit to Grandma Brown and all the aunts, uncles and cousins. Grandma Brown and Gan Gan often visited us in La Junta. It was an easy train ride for each of them. Now it was time for school again and settling down.
Harry J. and Molly Anne were both taking piano lessons; Harry ~ also the clarinet, and playing in the band. He was getting in on scout campouts, parties (which he hated) with friends of both sexes, and church activities. Harry J. and Molly Anne re­ceived their First Communion at St. Patrick's Church. Many rail road people came to La Junta and we most always entertained the in our home. Celebrities often traveled by train. If we got word someone special was on the train, we tried to be there to get a glimpse. President Truman (after he was President) came through, took a walk and checked the railroad official time wit his.
In the summer of 1959, Dr. Young recommended surgery for David. His right foot was beginning to turn outward due to a weakened muscle. To straighten it, a tendon was moved from the outside of his leg to the top of his foot and secured with a button on the bottom of his foot. The button imprint is still on his foot. He was in a bent knee cast for six weeks, but that didn't stop him from climbing his favorite tree. This correction helped hi to raise his foot upward rather than outward. Each phase of surgery was major which resulted in a minor correction.
In August 1959, Harry got word of his assignment to Wellington, KS. The biggest concern was changing doctors again, but we re­turned to Dr. Young only once as we were able to continue with a doctor in Wichita. Nothing was needed for David during our Wellington years.
Harry J. was entering Junior High - a drastic change. His in­volvement in sports, scouts and music helped, and he immedia­tely was playing clarinet in the band. One day I sneaked in on a solo performance of Mozart Concerto in A. How I wish I had a tape of that! He received a "1" rating. He had not told me I could come - someone else did.
David B Blue. He came home for lunch, and one noon he dis­appeared in the creek area behind our place. It was time to go back to school. The creek was a favorite spot to hide and explore. I sent Silky to find him, which he did. David won first prize in the Chamber of Commerce bicycle parade that year.
Harry J. found some colored wires at school. The teacher didn’t know what they were and told him he could keep them. When he stuck one in a light socket, thinking it looked like a battery tester, it exploded; the fragments of lead from the dynamite cap penetrated his ear lobes, cheeks and knees'. He was wear­ing a terry cloth bath robe and leaning over a toy box or would have been badly injured. In the emergency room, Dr. Cole reprimanded him for messing with something when he didn't know what it was. Later we learned several pupils had found some of the wires strewn around the school grounds.
One day Harry J. protested cleaning his room on Saturday and told me he was running away. He left down the alley. Tear­fully, I called Harry at the office. He told me to not worry which didn't help, but in about an hour, I discovered Harry J. playing in the yard.
It seemed unnecessary to always hire a baby sitter for the three now that they were pretty responsible and we would be only a few minutes away with instructions to call us if necess­ary. They called many time~, but not one night. When we re­turned home and they were all asleep in bed, we found a full page note on the kitchen table telling us of a commotion in the back yard early in the evening. They discovered a coyote play­ing with our Silky. In the morning, we got full details. The coyote continued to come each evening to eat with Silky and drink from his water bucket. A reporter came from the newspaper to capture the unique story with a picture. From that story, an eager bounty hunter killed the animal. Our place was also mentioned each spring because of the beautiful flowering peach tree in our front yard.
Harry Robert and Edna Leiker were married in Wichita while we were here and we attended their wedding. They moved to Wellington for a while.
In the winters, Gan Gan lived with us in Wellington. We con­tinued to go fishing and hunting and again we were closer to relatives in the Emporia area. They came to visit often, as did we, and we were able to enjoy special occasions together. The Amarillo folks came, and the Missouri relatives.
Our best friends, Dixie and John Gill, Ellis and Dolly, lived nearby. Ellis was the high school drum major. We always attended the school's sports events. We played bridge often. That's what people did in Wellington. We also learned to play golf, partly because of the beautiful golf course. It was filled with 27 varieties of oak trees and had a pretty lake. The lake would freeze over in the winter, so we all ice skated and sledded there.
From Wellington, we liked to ~o to the candy factory in Dexter to watch the skilled hands roll stick candy on a marble slab fashioning flags, flowers and Christmas emblems through the centers. They still do, except now they are housed in a modern spacious factory. We liked it when it was a tiny house with organdy curtains. It was the original 0 Henry candy bar store.
Real shopping was convenient in Wichita, and Molly and I enjoyed shopping there. Horseback riding was available. Molly attended Girl Scout camp. Harry J. joined a group for a three day train trip to Carlsbad Caverns. David went to-Wichita with his ball team to watch a semi-pro game. He recognized Uncle Fritz umpir­ing the game and called his name. Fritz heard him and thrilled David by coming up into the stand to meet his team.
Often we rode the train to Amarillo to visit Mr. and Mrs. T. J. Anderson. We were invited occasionally to ride with some offi­cial on the business car.
As we were leaving the house one evening for a family night Safety Award Meeting, we received a telephone call that Mr. Anderson, the Asst. General Manager, and Mr. Andrick, formerly of Waynoka, had both been killed at a derailment site. We attended Mr. Anderson'~ funeral. Mrs. Anderson visited us sev­eral times after that. About a year later, she died of asphy­xiation after a fire in her home. Harry was a pallbearer at both of their funerals. Mrs. Anderson had been wanting Molly to come for a week-end visit. Later, her attorney mailed a Valentine card to Molly that was found on Mrs. Anderson’s desk.
Wellington was peach country. Helen's family visited us with Connie, Bertie and Mark. We all rode the open wagon and picked peaches. We had a steep grade, an embankment, near an overpass that was great for sliding down in a big box. The children would get huge boxes from appliance stores. Helen thought this awfully dangerous, but our kids thought it pretty mild compared to the things they did on Helen's farm.
News circulated that Harry would be moved again. We all speculated as to where. The children said they would not move. Fritz carne for a week-end and remarked he hoped it would be to Fort Madison IA, as he had not been there. But, he said, he heard at the bar­ber shop in Emporia that we were corning there.
Emporia it was - spring 1962. Harry went ahead. I remained in Wellington until the end of school. On June 1, we joined him.
Grandma lived a short distance away now, and all the aunts, uncle and cousins surrounded us. Those who lived away visited regular­ly so we got to know them all. I couldn't walk down the street in Emporia without seeing some long ago cousin or acquaintance. Grandma came to spend a day or two almost every week and we saw someone of the family often. Mae and Leo Brinkman were there too.
Gan Gan was not well and we hurried to New London and Hannibal a couple of time before she passed away in July 1962 Now that we were closer, she was gone. At 86, we felt lucky to have had her as long as we did with the distances between us.
David rode his bike to Uncle Fritz' house to play and called to stay for lunch. In the excitement the children ran through the house with David in the lead. He reached his hand to the storm door. It didn't open and he went crashing through the glass receiving severe cuts on his throat, knees and arm. Emergency treatment under the care of Dr. Don Coldsmith saved his life. After an hour in surgery, 100 stitches and a few compli­cations, he recovered completely in time for school to start.
Harry J. went to Emporia High School and Molly to Emporia Junior High. Both were downtown. They had to carpool or ride the bus. David attended neighborhood Village Elementary School. Here he became interested in the cello and took lessons.
Emporia was a great place for us all at this time in our lives. Everyone blossomed and bloomed here. Besides his busy job as Superintendent of the Santa Fe Railroad, Harry was active in Rotary and the Chamber of Commerce. With a growing family, we were doing something every day - high school sports, plays, costumes to make, musicals, baseball, band, wrestling, volunteering. Harry J. did well on the wrestling team and in the band. He played with the city band in the summers and we all attended at concerts in the park. Parades, celebrations - Emporia had it all. We all thought if we had to leave here, we would eventually come back to stay.
Harry purchased a red Jeep which was transportation for the children, and for each to call his own at times.
Friends in the country volunteered to board a horse for Molly ­her dream come true! She rode frequently - leisurely or in parade, and joined the Flint Hills Saddle Club which kept us all involved. On a trail ride in the Flint Hills, Apache de­cided to lie down in the creek, soaking her and filling her boots, not to mention her embarrassment. We were to leave the next morning for a vacation at Roaring River State Park in the Ozarks at Cassville, MO.-a favorite trout fishing stream and vacation spot. Molly lost her voice because of the dunking and couldn't talk for a week. Here we rode horses, swam, hiked, fished and played shuffleboard.
We managed a surprise 16th birthday celebration for Molly. AUI Virginia, her godmother, again brought a beautifully decorated cake. We put the stereo on the patio, had food and a wheelbarrow full of iced drinks; and to her astonishment, her friends arri­ved when she was expecting relatives.
One summer David attended Camp Mishawaka in Grand Rapids, MN. He canoed, golfed, played ball and enjoyed his young college male counselor who was in charge of eight boys in a cabin. David traveled by train with a couple other boys and we picked him up a month later.
We exchanged Thanksgiving dinners with Virginia and Delbert and their family. I remember one year when each of their seven children carried a pumpkin pie, sized to their size. One summer, we had baby Patrick a guest in our home while his older siblings took a camping vacation with their parents. Silky guarded this baby religiously.
Fritz' family stopped by often as their children also attend­ed Village school. We had great neighbors as well as the famous Santa Fe family that was always there.
Our family doctor was downtown where the children could stop by on their way home from school if they thought they needed hay fever relief or with some minor ailment.
We often had colored Easter chickens that usually came to no good end. One succumbed to the heat as we were traveling across country with it in a bird cage in hopes of delivering it to a farm in Missouri. Another became a grown rooster and was chased by our beautiful dog Silky who bruised the pet's leg badly, for which the vet charged me seven dollars to end its misery.
We attended the American Royal Livestock and Horse Show each fall and were able to use the Santa Fe's box seats. We took in a ball game in Kansas City occasionally. Usually dinner at the Italian Gardens followed. On the business car, we traveled to Kansas City, with dinner on the way, then attended the "Music Man" at the Starlight theatre. Molly also insisted on going to Kansas City to hear and see the "Beatles". We managed that al­though it meant being up all night, as we came home on the train in time for school the next day.
 
Harry J. had an after school job at Fritz' barber shop shining shoes and cleaning up. One summer he carried mail, and also waited tables at the Hospitality House restaurant, which was managed by Uncle Harry. He was proud of his tips and kept a record of them. Molly, too, hostessed at the Hospitality House. David had a paper route which he carried out on his bicycle. One summer Molly and her friend, Linda, cooked at a boys' camp. They all golfed and swam at the Country Club. The boys contin­ued to love the outdoors and hunted and fished at every chance.
We decided to take David to Mayo’s in Rochester, MN for evalua­tion of his polio damaged leg. We made it a vacation for all. In Rochester, Canadian geese wintered on a warm water lake in a park near our motel. Harry J. loved studying the geese. Molly dutifully followed him around while Harry and I were tied up with doctor appointments for David. Harry J. was anxious to get back home to his favorite hunting grounds. He even carried David, in a cast, on his back to let him have a chance to shoot. This re­minded me of Fr. Flanagan's slogan "He ain't heavy, Father, he's my brother".
Surgery was recommended for David. By this time, he had a difference of several inches in the lengths of his legs. Dr. Janes, a Canadian, wanted to do a fistula - a process developed during World War II. Dr. Janes had been stationed in Hawaii. A young military man who had been wounded in battle in the South Pacific was brought to him. On examination, Dr. Janes discovered an artery and a vein had grown together causing the injured leg to grow. Dr. Janes performed this surgery on David. It proved to be a success. David's leg began to grow. But, his age was not going to allow the leg to grow enough to catch up with the other leg; so it was also necessary to slow the growth of his good leg. This was done by stapling the grow­ing area in the knee. After a year, one staple loosened. Now, it was necessary to again operate on the good leg and do a bone graft. Many weeks were spent in casts and often during Christ­mas time, as that is when David would miss less school. However tutors were provided when he could not attend. Summers usually were spent in make-up work - a service available through the college there.
Church activities kept us all involved. David received his First Holy Communion; Molly and Harry J. were confirmed; I served my term as leader of the Sacred Heart Church Altar Soc­iety, also the Newcomer's Club, which provided friendships out­side the railroad. Here, P.E.O. became an important affilia­tion through my good friend, Barbara Shewmake. She and Max were part of our extended family.
Emporia was a big town. We all enjoyed the Emporia Gazette, partly because of knowing something about its founder, William Allen White. Young Bill White turned out to be a friend and we enjoyed social contacts with him and his wife, Katherine.
More new friends appeared in Phyllis and Ed Frickey, Katherine and Ron Bales and Peggy and Bill Wygle, which turned out to be a monthly dinner bridge group. Twenty five years later, with the addition of Betty and Dean Batt, we are still good friends and try to get together annually.
The wonderful Christmas pageant of all the city schools was an annual highlight. The year 1964, all three of our children par­ticipated. About this time, we had a fire scare at our house. While sitting in the living room one evening, we observed smoke coming through the paneling behind the fireplace. The garage was on the other side. I had put ashes from the fireplace into a cardboard barrel in a closet in the garage - to use in the flower beds in the spring. The fire department quickly extin­guished the fire and messed things up good.
In 1965, Harry J. graduated from high school. He had always been a good student and received numerous awards including the Rotary Four-Way-Test. He attended Boys' State at K.D. and tour­ed Washington, D.C. with his high school class. That summer his job was with the City Recreation Department as a playground supervisor. Here he was able to get reacquainted with Jane Ann Dumm, a classmate, also a supervisor on the playground. Harry J. was enrolled as a freshman at KSTC in Emporia, and Jane Ann a freshman at Saint Mary College, Leavenworth. They managed to see each other periodically.
Molly, too, worked on the playground in the summer City Recrea­tion program. She taught gymnastics to fifth and sixth graders. Friends, parties and pretty clothes were important. In her senior year, she toured Washington, D.C. with her classmates, traveling by train via New York. She had never been one in her teen years to stay away from home at night, not even at slumber parties, so she was a little worried. But, she told me she was so tired at night, a bed looked good and she slept.
In 1967, Molly graduated from high school. She, as well as many of her friends decided on KSTC for the fall. Rush week activities and the decision to pledge Alpha Sigma Tau brought a new world of excitement and fun for her, and a chance to re­main at home.
Molly's first year in college also brought the honor of being a candidate for Queen, where she rode in a convertible in the parade. She toiled through a routine gymnastic and tumbling act, with tutoring, and made a fine performance. The exper­ience was rewarding. Harry J. flew home for the occasion from Colorado School of Mines in Golden, CO. where he had trans­ferred after two years at KSTC. It was exciting for us all.
Molly continued to grow in confidence and charm, becoming more attached to the sorority and college activities. Don Morris, a Sig Ep, a graduate student and music teacher, as well as a vocalist, became an interesting part of Molly's life. He was a gentleman, drove a Corvette and did student teaching at Olpe High School, where he had several of my nieces as students. We all attended Don's solo concert for his Masters' after which we hosted refreshments for his family in our home.
David was maturing, active in Scouts, summer ball and swimming. He was daring in the pool, diving or jumping from the high board, and eventually breaking his two front teeth, which then had to be capped. His most important challenge now was Dri­ver's Ed - so important for a 16 year old. At last, he could drive the Jeep.
 
January 1969 and time to move again, to San Bernardino, CA this move was to drastically change our lives, break up our family and home, which was after six years in Emporia, the deep­est roots the children had had since they were growing up in a family atmosphere, with a grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins, and time to be involved in things a few years require.
But, we met the challenge and followed the job that had made life what it was for us. Parties, goodbyes, happy and sad mo­ments followed, as we reminisced and anticipated new experiences and opportunities - and for leaving Harry J. and Molly Anne be­hind again, as well as Grandma and all the other relatives. But, they all looked forward to a visit to California. Harry J. came home from Colorado School of Mines to see our house one last time.
He and Jane Ann were engaged to be married in the summer, and we would be back. Molly moved into the sorority house. We left our old Buick with her.
In mid January, 1969, David, our dog Zephyr, and I boarded the train in Emporia, where it was 50, with a delegation of relatives seeing us off. Harry was already on the job in San Bernardino, and unable to come for us due to heavy rains, like I had done severe damage to the railroad there with mud slides. washouts and all the disastrous things that weather causes; ~ as tornado threats plagued us in Amarillo, Waynoka, Wellington and Emporia, and in the earlier days, dust storms. Our furnishings which were transported by rail, as well as the Jeep, were held up behind the washouts, so we lived in a motel for a wee before we could set up housekeeping in our pretty house at 2810 Ladera Rd., with luscious citrus~ walnut and other tree~ pool and flowers, and a green lawn. It was one hour to the mountains and one hour to the beach.
David enrolled in San Bernardino High School. The size of the school was overwhelming, but David found his place and held his own. He found more good friends and good times and inde­pendence by having the Jeep as his own, and being an only chi He enjoyed our swimming pool which was a neat way to entertain his friends. He found happiness in the church, Holy Rosary, enjoyed the Christian Doctrine classes he attended, where he made more new friends. The high school football team chose h as their trainer. He was a member of the yearbook committee his senior year, and was especially interested in his art class and woodworking. He did several good water colors that year.
Harry J. hurried to California during spring break from Color School of Mines to get acquainted with our home and surround­ings. Molly, too, came on the train for Easter break and other vacations from college. Grandma Brown visited. Harry and Ed moved to San Diego, so they were now within visiting distance regularly. One summer, Molly even put up with a clerical job in the Santa Re office in San Bernardino. Don, too, had migrated to California. He had spent several summers with his aunt and uncle in the area, and was now seeking a teaching position. In the meantime, he had several jobs, including switching on the Santa Fe. That made it hard for Molly to return to Kansa and her studies. Corky and Glenn Young and Tami became important and lasting friends in our lives.
In the summer of 1969, Molly, David, Harry and I drove to the Midwest while Don house-sat in San Bernardino. We spent one night with Thouret Lea and Ed Gaughan in Las Cruces, NM on our way to Silsbee, TX and the wedding of Dolly Gill and Dr. Rob Fugitt. Molly was an attendant. Harry J. and David were ushers Harry J. had joined us, traveling by train from Colorado, Kansas and Houston. This was our last "family" gathering - the five us.
One week later, Harry J. and Jane Ann were married in Emporia, KS at Sacred Heart Church on August 2, 1969 and were off on their honeymoon and then life as dormitory supervisors at Colorado School of Mines in Golden, CO. where Harry J. would finish his education as a Geologist. Jane Ann had her teach­ing degree from KSTC. On our way to their wedding, from Sils­bee, the five of us spent several days at Roaring River State Park in Cassville, MO where Harry, Harry J. and David enjoyed a little fishing.
Molly was an attendant at their wedding; David was his brother' best man. A trio of college men from Colorado served as atten­dants. The next day we attended Linda'-s wedding (Molly's friend) where Molly was an attendant. Now, all the protected and guarded wedding clothes were history.
Harry, Molly, David and I journeyed on to Rochester, MN where David underwent more surgery. It was necessary to remove the shunt Dr. Janes had placed to encourage leg growth. David was on the mend, so we left him to recuperate and to fly home later. Our long drive back to California was by way of Las Vegas, NE. our first time there. When we returned home to California, it was time for Molly to return to her studies at KSTC to complete her education.
Several times, Harry J. played baseball in Phoenix, AZ. with the Mines team, and we joined him there. On one of these occasions, we were told we were to be grandparents. I-mat a joy and a blessing when Jennifer Kay Briscoe arrived on November 2, 1970. She and her parents spent her first Christmas in California with us. Don composed a song “A pillow for your head” which he sang to her on Christmas morning. The tiny satin pillow was fashioned by me from duck feathers Harry J. had saved from one of his hunting trips. Jennifer Kay was baptized at Holy Rosary Church that week wearing the christening dress and bonnet I made.
In San Bernardino, we shared our home with some Japanese Choral members who were touring the United States through Rotary. Several performances were held in our area. We learned how to bow and how to communicate with hand and facial expressions. One of the young men supposedly understood English and could speak some. We were never quite sure which one. We got well acquainted wit] a young Japanese woman, Ikuko, who lived for a month in San Bernardino with a Rotary family. She was our guest on Easter week· end since she was Catholic and wanted to attend Easter services with us. Henry Christensen, from Denmark, made his home with us for almost a year as a Rotary exchange student.
David played golf, fished and hunted. Here, the terrain was so different from anything he had known - the mountains and rocks, but another new experience. Here we experienced the most dread­ed thing in California - an earthquake. The light fixtures swayed and the pool splashed.
After graduation from high school in 1971, David worked nights at a Quik shop in Needles. We had visited Needles many times, fished in the Colorado River and boated there. A friend even took us in his boat to Havasu, AZ for lunch. He knew David well and recommended him for the job.
Now, David was ready to head back to the Midwest and attend KSTC as did his brother and sister. He left in the Jeep to enroll and settle in the dormitory. He found he didn't have as much time to hunt and fish as anticipated, but was back in the country he loved.
Family life changed radically. Harry was away much of the time. I took a position at California state College in the office the Dean of Admissions, and was back in the environment of young people which I enjoyed. Besides, I loved the early morning drive over Little Mountain to work.
Molly had graduated from KSTC with her degree in Elementary EI Cajon, and was ready to pursue her new talents. When she came home that summer, she brought with her three friends for a week. Henry was still there and Don too, so they all had a happy time vacationing in California.
Molly's first job was as supervisor of a day care center. Then a chance to teach came and she accepted a kindergarten assign­ment at Smiley School in Redlands" CA. She and Don married March 25, 1972, at the beautiful, historic Mission Inn, River: in St. Francis of Assisi Chapel. A patio reception was held our home. Don was teaching music at Rubidoux High School. Jane Ann and Jenni came from Golden, Co., David from Emporia and Hi and Edna, Scot and Heidi from San Diego. Mary Sayre, Harry's cousin from Leisure World, CA. joined us. Virginia and Bob Williams were there.
Several times, when Irene and Ruth Williams visited California we were able to get together. They visited us almost every place ever lived.
After Harry J's graduation from Colorado School a job with Tenneco Oil Co. in Bakersfield, CA. were close by again. David would be home soon, all be together again.
Grandma Brown was seriously ill in Kansas. I took a leave from my work to spend two weeks with her in Kansas. At the end of 12 days, Harry called wanting me to come home, which I did, a: he was being transferred to Chicago to fill the position as assistant to the vice-president of Operations. The call came that Grandma had passed away. Together, Harry and I returned to Kansas.
 
August, 1972, Harry moved on to Chicago. I closed out my job, visited Harry J., Jane and Jenni several times in Bakersfield, journeyed to Chicago to help decide on a house, and In November I move to Arlington Heights, IL.
We enjoyed again the experience of city life. Harry’s assignments were always exciting. Now, he rode the commuter train to and from work, and walked a mile each way from the train to his office. When he arrived home at night, his time was free as he had read the morning news on the way in, and the evening news on his way home. Maybe he even had a nap. We scanned the neighborhood communities and learned our way around. This time we had car. We renewed WW II friendships of 30 years ago. Numerous times, I joined Harry after work, for dinner and the theatre in the City, catching the late commuter train home. David came at Thanksgiving and Christmas; Molly and Don at Christmas.
Before going back to Emporia to school, David went to Mayo's for more surgery and went back to Kansas in a cast and on crut­ches. Aunt Lena, from Amarillo~ came to Chicago, and I accom­panied her to Mayo's for possible knee surgery. Her grandson, Kenneth Roper and his wife Cindy were stationed in the Chicago area while he was in the service. We met them at the airport when Aunt Lena arrived. Aunt Lena and I went right on to Rochester. With this sudden acquaintance; we felt close ties to Kenny and Cindy. They accompanied Harry home for the week-end. We still keep in touch with them in Ft. Collins, CO.
Just as we settled in this routine, Harry was named General Man­ager, Eastern Lines of Santa Fe, in Topeka, KS, where our re­lationship began. What a glorious finale to a great career! Here, Harry was assigned a private business car for business trips, and numerous times I was able to accompany him to Chicago, California, New Mexico and Texas.
Harry J. and family had transferred to Lafayette, LA, and a grandson arrived there. Matthew James Briscoe was born on May 9, 1975. Another joy and blessing - a pretty little boy.
David left school at KSTC to take a job with the Santa Fe in Richmond, CA. where Glenn and Corky Young lived in nearby Martinez. That lasted a year before David transferred to Fort Worth, then Kansas City and finally Dallas.
October 1, 1982 - forty-five years with the Santa Fe Railroad, and it's time to retire:
David and Cindy Edstrom married December 24, 1986, at Corpus Christi Church, in the community of Mooney Creek, with the reception being held in the beautiful Red Room of Saint Mary College, Leavenworth. He and Cindy live in Rowlett, TX. Molly and Don live in Riverside, CA, Harry J., Jane Ann, Jenni and Matt in Kingwood, TX.
Now, in 1992, 50 years later, as I write, we have lived in this house and in this town where we met, longer than either of us have lived anywhere. We have been able to travel, visit family and friends, do volunteer work, and remain active, as we continue to count our blessings and be thankful for our family, our friends, our love, honesty and respect we have for one another.
 
“WHERE I HEARD THIS MELODY”
1917 - 1938
Harry James Briscoe 1992
It has always seemed to me there is something immodest in writing one1s own biography, but perhaps this is not so if one is importuned by his dear wife and children upon occasion of his 50th wedding anniversary.
I suppose a proper autobiography should commence at the beginning, which for me was on September 15, 1917, on a very poor farm in northeast Missouri, one and one-half miles southeast of New London, the county seat of Ralls County. My father was Harry Cleaver Briscoe and my mother, Mollie Bertie Johnson, both natives of that vicinity. My father was born January 22, 1871 and died in our home in New London, January 18, 1926. My mother was born January 1, 1876, and died in Levering Hospital at Hannibal, MO, July 31, 1962.
My early recollections are of a sand box under a huge tree (an elm, I think) behind an ordinary two-story, white farmhouse. A long dirt road led southward from the east-west graveled county road, down a hill, then across a small creek we called simply little branch," and up a hill to the farmhouse on the left and the barn on the right. I have a vague memory of having been quaran­tined in a dark room with my older brother, Robert, about 12, for we both had smallpox when I was two or three years of age. I have a memory of my father coming to the window outside and passing in to us a bowl of cherries. .
Another memory is of a harvest field northwest of the house where my family was shocking wheat or oats, stacking the bundles in the little pyramids that was the custom long ago. I remember this because there was a large, wild cherry tree in the fencerow to the west. In some manner, a wild cherry, or seed, wound up in my ear, and my family had to take me to see Dr. Downing in New London. I told them I thought the wind blew it in there. They thought I had stuck it in my ear myself. To my knowledge, this question was never resolved. Of course, Dr. Downing in judgment might have been preju­diced--although we didn1t have such thoughts in those days. Anyway when Dr. Downing had delivered me on the farm, he wanted my mother to name me Benjamin Franklin. Instead, in naming me Harry, they may have made a wiser choice. Benjamin Franklin never did make President, but a Harry did!
The little creek that flowed eastward down the valley in front of our house was fed by springs and originated on our property. It exited to the east onto the farm of the Lyngs. This family consisted of tow brothers, Nr. Ed and Mr. Pat, and their sister, Miss Mary, none of whom had ever married. Mr. Ed died sometime in my early life and I barely remember him. I do remember he left a shiny, black touring car automobile, which afterward sat on blocks in their little garage, and I don't know what became of it. One of their relatives from St. Louis was a rather prominent attorney and seemed to help with their affairs.
Mr. Pat and Miss Mary were to continue to be an important part of my childhood, as were The Brach and the Lyng Woods. Another family of Lyngs, Mr. John, lived on the far side of these woods, and a winding road led along the branch through the woods about a mile to their home. In the woods were many squirrels, as well as other wildlife--walnut, hickory and butternut trees, put there, I suppose, to gladden the heart of a small boy.
These woods also were the scene of an adventure for Brothers Robert and Jesse, when they were about 12 and 9 years- old. If one followed the branch down through the woods on its meandering way to Salt River, one would come to the farm of Cousin Frank and Cousin Allie Bowles, perhaps two miles downstream from our farm. One day, Robert, Jesse, and their big golden shepherd dog, Bill, set out for Cousin Frank's house. Perhaps a quarter mile into Lyngs Woods, the road makes a sharp bend to the right, a hairpin curve around a rocky bluff. On this date, right at the point of the curve, they came face to face with a timber wolf. The dog, Bill, set upon the wolf, and they had a terrific fight. The boys tried to help by throwing stones at the wolf, and finally the wolf was backed into an old wire fence, and they succeeded in kill­ing it. They returned home, the boys dragging the wolf, and they collected a bounty which the County paid for wolves. They deter­mined after the fight that the wolf was a young one; otherwise, they would not have been able to defeat it.
My own experience with the Lyng Woods centers around my adolescent years, when I would purchase a box of .22 short cartrid­ges for 15¢ and walk from New London out to see Miss Marry and Mr. Pat. They had a huge collie dog named Laddie, actually the third and largest of a succession of three, all named Laddie. He and I became inveterate squirrel hunters. The Lyngs would loan me their octagon-barrel Winchester rifle which Miss Mary kept handy to shoot “chicken hawks," as we called them, and woe to the unwary hawk that settled down in the huge sycamore tree near her chicken house. The Lyngs used to say that Laddie somehow when I came onto their property, and he would soon be heard from down in the woods baying at a squirrel which he had treed. There were squirrels around the house and barn, frequenting the hickory-nut trees, but these were off-limits to Laddie and me. Laddie and I would get a fair supply of squirrels, anywhere from one to four, and I became proficient at dressing them, which is no small accomplishment. We ate squirrel at home, just as we ate chicken, and the same rules applied. A young squirrel, like a young chicken, was destined to be fried and served most likely with mashed potatoes and gravy. An old squirrel on the other hand, deserved the same fate as an old hen, and would be stewed in a pot, accompanied by potatoes and noodles or dumplings. Sometimes now, when I am harassed by the city squirrels, stealing birdseed and gnawing holes in my bird feeder, I have fond memories of those better days.
Sometimes Mr. Pat and I would sit on the top step of the front porch and shoot his .22 pistol at empty cartridges placed in a neat row.
My brothers were Robert, born; March 19, 1908, and who died January 23, 1992, and Jesse Melbourne, born January 28, 1911. (He later changed his middle name to Bowles, my paternal grand­mother's maiden name, and which was the middle name of our Uncle Jesse, who was most benevolent to my mother and our family.)
The last early memory of the farm comes; I am sure, from hearing my mother's plaintive description of the farm sale and seeing her beautiful buggy horse led away by a new owner. At, this time, I was four years of age, and we moved to New London to live with my maternal grandmother, fondly called "Guydoo" by all of us. She lived in a spacious one-story house on an acre of ground on the southeast corner of the block, one block west of the main street, Highway 61, and the Courthouse. Apparently, from family photographs, one of my first jobs after moving was to be ring bearer at the wedding of the Superintendent of Schools, Cary Dean Thorp and Imogene Northcutt, a chore I must have performed very well, for they remained together the balance of their lives. Our house had been built about 1879, for I remember my mother say­ing she had moved there when she was three years of age, having been born one block to the east. She died at the age of 86, still living in that house.
In our family there has been some mystery about my maternal grandfather, William H. Johnson. He and Guydoo were married in 1871. My mother had an older brother, Little Willie, who died at age six. Neither my mother nor Guydoo would ever talk about my grandfather, He was the son of Zephaniah Johnson, and I have on the wall of my study an original land grant signed by President Andrew Jackson dated 1834 covering the sale of 80 acres of land to Zephaniah Johnson.
 Two houses to the north lived Guydoo's widowed sister, Aunt Mandy Hornback, and her diabetic daughter, Sally, a lady about 40 years old. Mr. Hornback had owned the dry goods s tore in New London. Around 1930, Aunt Mandy decided in order to live, she would have to sell her home, and she and Sally move to a Methodist home, giving them the proceeds. Instead, my mother suggested, she and Sally could move in with us, rent out her house, and upon her death leave her house to my mother. They did this, but Sally died about a year after coming to our house, and Aunt Mandy lived to age 92.
Along about this time, my Uncle Jesse found it necessary to place Grandma Briscoe (his stepmother) somewhere, so he engaged my mother to take care of her for $50 per month. We did this also, and many a winter night we sat in one room by the wood stove (Aunt Mandy's bedroom), I doing my homework, and the ladies listening to the comedy shows--or the thrillers--on the radio. I carried wood around the house and piled it on the back porch for the stove.
Aunt Mandy so appreciated it that she gave me a wheelbarrow for Christmas After we moved from the farm, my father went back to his vocation, that of being a traveling salesman, working through­out Kansas, Oklahoma and Colorado, as well as North Texas. He had previously sold banking house supplies for the George D. Barnard Co. of St. Louis. He had outfitted many of the early banks of Oklahoma Territory around the turn of the century, was doing ex­ceptionally well while headquartered at Oklahoma City, and it was much against my mother's judgment that they returned to Ralls County to try to make a living farming. My mother told me that they had purchased a number of lots in Oklahoma City which they sold for twice what they paid for them. However, some of them were located on Capitol Hill, which in later years became an oil field. Once, when I was Superintendent at Wellington, Ks, we were en route to Oklahoma City with Trainmaster Roy Matthews to testify in a station closing case. We stopped at the little town of Mulhall, Okla. to have lunch with his sister who ran the bank. I asked to see the books in this obviously ancient bank, and I was not surprised to find that the big, leather-bound ledgers had come from George D. Barnard Company.
When my parents returned to Ralls County, they settled on a different farm, in the Rocky Point neighborhood, where Robert and Jesse had been born. They had to move from it because they had not done well there either.
When Dad returned to selling on the road, he represented the Standard Printing Co. of Hannibal; also carried a few sidelines including honey from Colorado. He was away from home many weeks at a time, keeping in touch by letters only. One summer he took Brother Robert with him; I’m not sure for how long. I don’t recall any casual long distance telephoning in those days, although my early memories of Guydoo's house included an early oak-cabinet telephone on the wall in the dining room. It had a ringer and an earpiece, as I'm sure you have seen in museums or antique stores. I can remember my mother allowing me to stand on a chair to ring “Central” as the operators were universally called. I think my business was usually to ask for the correct time---something very important to a small boy.
Very little do I remember about my father's visits home, but he remained on the traveling job until about a year before his death, when he came back to New London and took a job as cashier in the local bank. He died after being ill of the flu or pneumonia perhaps, after about a week. He had worked in the bank approximately one year. My mother told me many times that she thought he had a “bad heart.” She also added that the “Briscoe’s” had bad hearts, but her side of the family, the “Conns” had very strong ones. My mother sent me in to see my father shortly before he died. He must have known the end was near, and I think he ad­monished me to be a "good boy" and help my mother. Unfortunately, the part I remember was that if the Lord saw fit to make him well he would play ball and do other things with me.
By father owed a $400 note at the bank. My mother straightaway went to the bank and signed papers to assume respon­sibility for the note, something she stated she was not required to do, but this honorable act tells us something about the integ­rity of many people of those days. Because she had to do something to make a living, that summer she declared herself a candidate for the County office of Recorder of Deeds, a job held by incumbent Cliff Jones, who had been there two terms, or eight years. She bought a second-hand Chevrolet touring car for $50, though she did not drive and never learned. My Brother Jesse, a sophomore in High School, drove her on her campaign tour allover Ralls County, and I went along, riding in the back seat. I often took one of my playmates along, sometimes Marjorie Woollen, whose family lived close by. We would stop at every farmhouse, and my mother would go to the door and talk to people and leave her card. Once she got a bad bite on the hand from a vicious dog. Sometimes in the evenings we would go to ice-cream socials, usually held at country school houses. Normally they would be outside with a few dim lights strung over the crude wooden tables.
My mother won her office in the primary election in August, and this was tantamount to victory, for the general election in November was a mere formality to put up with because Ralls County was almost 100% Democratic, and the token Republican candidates would garner only a few votes from the entire county. I have told many people--somewhat as a joke, but it was true--that I never saw a Republican until I was about 18 (at least that I knew of), but we boys used to think that Mr. Piper, the undertaker, was one.
At the time of my father's death, Brother Robert was attending his first semester at the University of Illinois. I re­member he came home in the fall, perhaps Thanksgiving, and brought with him wondrous literature about the football team, with Coach Bob Zuppke and his great star, Red Grange. The second semester, after my father's death, he went to Culver-Stockton College at Canton, Mo. I recall visiting him there, but I don't remember the circumstances. I know my mother went, so perhaps it was Parents Day. I remember his rooming house, and two room-mates, Art stout, a classmate from New London, who lived on a farm next to Cousin Frank Bowles. The other was Joe Longmire. I have no idea why I remember the name, but I think he was from Hannibal. I think that summer Bob went to work at the shoe factory in Hannibal and bought a small coupe to drive to work. Once while sleeping with my mother in the front room with all the windows open to capture a little breeze, we were awakened by a persistently re­petitive noise, sounding like someone snoring. This was logical, because it was. There was a drunken colored (black) man lying out in front of our house in the road underneath Bob's car. My mother put on her old heavy cotton robe, went out front, rousted him out from underneath the car, and sent him on his way. She always said she had no fear of New London's "Darkies". Another time, the same man in the same condition, tried to quarter his horse in our woodshed. He had no better luck that time, and soon he and his horse were moving on. My mother was a small woman--only five feet tall--and her photographs as a young lady show that she was beautiful, with soft dark hair and even features. As a young woman, she had attained a degree of local fame as an "elocutionist," a form of oratory pop­ular in those days. This skill was also called dramatic reading, and the readings often were "tear jerker’s” and others were humorous. My mother told me she was defeated only once in a contest, this for a diamond medal, and by a man from St. Louis. These contests were sponsored by the Women's Christian Temperance Union (WCTU), a strong political organization of that time. She had previously won the silver, the gold, and the grand gold medal. These medals were carefully kept in their velvet-lined boxes in the top drawer of her dresser, along with a treasured fine doll, and other precious memorabilia. I recall parts of some of these readings, but I do not ex­pect many requests to do them as a result of these comments. These medals were later framed by a professional at Mary Catherine’s di­rection and now hang in an honored place in our living room. One of the small dolls was a "frozen Charlotte," now recognized as a valuable memento of that period.
My mother could have been the inspiration for the song “Whistle While You Work," for one of my most vivid memories if of her whistling while she went about her housework. She was very good at it, but I recall also her adage that: "A whistling woman and a crowing hen always come to some bad end."
Other recollections of our neighborhood include was. Bertie Bowles, a widowed lady who lived with her little fox ter­rier dog across the street to the south. She was a rather heavy lady, but very agile and active, who was not too particular about the state of her appearance or that of her household. She was, however, a jewel in the rough and was probably my mother's most frequent visitor. Many times when she would come over she would play checkers with me, and she was good! She made her moves with hardly a second's hesitation and her aggressive play contributed to my becoming a much better player than I otherwise would have been.
My mother employed a black lady, Hattie Jackson, to help her with housework and cleaning. She was very good and faithful. She had several sons who were a worry to her and used to talk to my mother about her concerns. I know one of them was sent to the penitentiary for awhile.
Across the front street lived Dr. Waters in a fine three ­story house. He became our physician after Dr. Downing's death. He, his wife whom we called "Aunt Lil," (she was not related) were very kind to us. They had beautiful flowers, fruit trees and a grape arbor, but mainly they had a library which they made available to me. I borrowed books, usually two at a time. They had every volume of the Tarzan series and the other books by Edgar Rice Bur­roughs. Even now I recall parts of many of them. I doubt that many reading these reflections would remember, "Thuvia, Maid of Mars;" or "Pellucidar", or "At the Earth’s Core." Also, most of Jack London; most of James Oliver Curwood, who wrote of the Far North; The Bobbsey Twins; The Rover Boys and the Tom Swift series were books I borrowed in the earlier years. Their son, Tim, later became one of my High School teachers and basketball coach of a team we entered in the YMCA League at Hannibal. We played during cold weather, of course, and the entire team (there must have been only five of us) rode the ten miles in Tim's Ford or Chevrolet coupe with a rumble seat. One does not easily forget huddling down in the collar of a sheep lined coat in bitter cold in the open air of a rumble seat, especially when one has just come from a quick dip in the swimming pool without fully drying his hair.
Our "Aunt Hallie" in the later years of my boyhood lived one block to the south, and we dutifully called upon her now and ~hen. She was the widow of my "Uncle Rob," my father's older brother. They lived on a farm west of New London, and I barely re­=ember him, as he died before my father. I do remember that we were invited to their farm one Sunday when I was five or six, and their son, Biggs, a rural mail carrier, made a hook from a safety pin and I caught my first fish in their little creek. I also remember they were much more prosperous than we, and Aunt Hallie would drive in from their farm in a robin's egg blue touring car with leather upholstery. I learned later that she was a daughter of prosperous people, so I suppose they had inherited money that helped account for the nice farm and fine automobile.
We had other farm friends who always remembered us at “hog-killing time”. This was an annual farm ritual that took place in Missouri. Fat hogs were killed; hams were hung in the "smoke­house" after they had been cured by salt being worked into them, and they were finished by smoking for several days. Our friends always brought us large portions of the fresh meat, including spareribs and liver. I should not forget another farm friend. "Uncle Trav," a black man lived in a cabin somewhere near Cousin Frank Bowles. (Brother Jesse probably knows where) My memory of him is that he brought us a big bucket of peaches from his own tree. They were very small and very delicious--like nothing we find nowa­days.
Faint memories of my father during those early years. I can see him up front officiating at the Christian Church. Once he set me down in a pan of wash water in a darkened room, which made me very angry. A fond memory remains of his taking me quail hunt­ing just west of New London. He instructed me to fall to the ground when the quail flushed so he could shoot in any direction. He got several quail and then left me on the country road at a bridge while he walked a ways to a farmhouse and gave the quail to a widowed lady who lived there. When he returned, we hunted farther west, all the way to Uncle Dick Conn's barn (a local landmark), and at times when I got tired he carried me on his shoulder.
Guydoo owned one-half square block. Behind the house there 'Were out-buildings--the chicken house" an old barn with a hayloft, a woodshed and a coal shed when we had moved to town we brought a Jersey cow, and somewhere in our keepsakes there is a picture of Jesse holding to the cow's halter, and I think taken at the public spring. We had chickens and occasionally would kill one and dress it for Sunday dinner. It was common to kill a chicken by ringing its neck. (Mary's family chopped the head off) My mother taught me a more efficient way, which was to place a broomstick across its neck on the ground, stand on the broomstick, and pull. Perhaps it is fortunate we did not have any Animal Rights people back then. Actually animals had no rights. They were raised for food, and this was recognized as their logical destiny. Once I had a pet Rhode Island Red rooster which I named Napoleon. He would hop upon my knee if I sat down, and he would let me pet him. Once my mother would not give me 15¢ to see the Saturday afternoon movie, so I told her I would take Napoleon and sell him at Hunter Hulse's feed store. I did so, and later, with great remorse, I prowled in the alley behind the feed store and found Napoleon in a coop horribly pecked by the other roosters. My mother gave me the money to buy him back, but Hunter would not sell him to me. I know now he knew he was too badly hurt. There is some kind of lesson here that has stayed with me these 65 years, but I'm not quite sure what it is..
Many memories of Hunter Hulse. His feed store was the sports headquarters. It was on the main street facing the front door of the Courthouse. He always had the baseball game on the radio, usually KMOX, St. Louis, and the Cardinals, with announcer Franz Laux, but sometimes an open date, and he would have WGN, Chicago, and the Cubs, with Bob Elston. Hunter sat at an ancient roll-top desk in the front corner, and his cronies and other loafers sat on stacks of sacked bran or feed. We were all experts, and even today I can re­cite the entire lineup of those fabulous Cardinals. My hero was Sunny Jim Bottomley, of Nokomis, II. the first baseman. He was the Host Valuable Player of the National League in 1929. In the fall of the year, in the early 30’s, he was to provide me with a thrill that has lasted a lifetime. One November, Judge Harry weaver, who lived on our street and had an old pointer bird dog, asked if he could borrow our setter, Gladstone, as he was having guests up to hunt that weekend. One was a businessman from St. Louis, and the other as Sunny Jim Bottomley. My brother, Jesse, loaned him the dog. On Saturday, Hamp Hays and I were practicing hitting in the Court­house lawn, up near the front of the building, where if a ball got by, the building would stop it. Suddenly Judge Weaver and two men appeared on the sidewalk, having walked across the side street to the Courthouse. One of them stepped off the walk and placed his hand on the bat on Hamp1s shoulder. We were playing with a string ball and a brooms tick. He said, "Let me see if I can hit one ~ If At once, I recognized Sunny Jim and almost as quickly my great oppor­tunity. Fate was kind, indeed, if I threw one by the famous slug­ger, my future in baseball would be assured. I could even see a small boy going to spring training in Florida. I wound up and let a fast one go right down the middle. Sunny Jim took his fluid, easy swing, and the ball went over the locust trees and came to rest in the street in front of the feed store. He handed the bat back to Ramp, while I trudged after the ball, pondering my short career with the Big Leaguers.
Another story comes to mind that occurred in the same location. A bunch of us were shagging short pop flies. When it was his turn to bat, Edward Morris hit one a little too strong. It went over all our heads and on its downward arc it crossed the veranda and through the top pane of glass in the front window of the Prosecuting Attorney, Mr. Ward Crockett. In hurried conference it was agreed Edward Morris should go up and try to get our baseball back. This was a real baseball this time, not string. About the time Edward mounted the front steps, Mr. Crockett came out the front door. His glasses were hanging on one ear and. blood was streaming down his face. He gave us the ball back by throwing it down on the rock veranda so that it bounced about ten feet high.
The front lawn of the courthouse was the only “City Park” we had, and if we were not swimming, likely we were gathered here play­ing "Corkball." In our country, this game was the predecessor of present-day softball, only more practicable. For one thing, we played it with three men on a side. We had one long base, and if the batter swung at a pitch and the catcher caught it, the batter was out. The ball was a miniature replica of a regulation baseball, except it was made of cork underneath a horsehide cover with regular stitching. I am told they had leagues at one time in Hannibal. One could buy the balls at Johnnie Grace's Sporting Goods Store in Hannibal, and Mary Catherine once bought a supply at Stix, Baer & Fuller in St. Louis for our kids to play with. She still has one-­in mint condition--which I have never been able to get away from her. One threw the ball by gripping it with one finger, parallel to the stitching for a fast ball, or across the stitching for an un­predictable curve. Since catching was “out” a good catcher was a great asset, and I got to be a good one. I was very small and could crouch close to the batter, and with an old first base mitt with no padding, I could scoop up low ones when a batter would swing, thinking he had nothing to lose. There was always a team or two waiting to play the winner. They sat on the Courthouse veranda, and sometimes the County officers would come out and watch us.
Our grocery store operator was huge round man named Glenn Scott, jovial and fun-loving. My mother allowed me to charge things on the grocery bill, so I could get a bologna sandwich for lunch, or crackers and cheese and even candy bars. I remember only gentle admonitions about charging too much. It was like a poor-boy's Visa card! Hunter Hulse and Glenn Scott delighted in tormenting an elderly black man, Sam Johnson. He acted like he did not enjoy it but he always came back for more. Once when he was sitting on a cream can in front of Hunter's feed store, a young clerk, Mac Wilson, went out back, climbed up onto the flat roof and dropped an egg on the sidewalk next to Sam. Hunter then swore that this was an egg that came from a duck flying over on its annual migration. The only problem, when Mac tried it again, Sam saw him on the roof and commenced heaving rocks from the graveled road in Mac’s direc­tion, but close enough to the plate glass windows to give Hunter great concern. Sam Johnson was not the only one they teased. When I was barely old enough to go to town alone, my mother would send me up to The Chocolate Shop for a few pieces of fine chocolates-­just about her only extravagance, so far as I knew. Hunter and his friends told me that candy would grow if I planted it in the garden. Nowadays we read of scams directed at old people. In those days, we had them for little bitty kids!
Even in those depression years, they had a few pennies to throw down on the sidewalk to see the little kids scrounge for them. Hunter was well-liked by the "Darkies,” and he could influence their votes in an election. More than once, one would come to the polls, saying he wanted to vote for “Mr. Hunter Hulse.” Of course, he was not even running.
When my mother won the office, she immediately hired the defeated incumbent, Cliff Jones, as her deputy. In this manner, she could do her housework in the mornings, taking care of Guydoo and getting me off to school, going to the office around noon. She had plenty of time to proof-read the journal entries with Mr. Jones and to sign all the papers and documents. In afternoons, after school, I would stop by her office when she was ready to go home. At the back of her office, a staircase led up to the court­room, and this was how the judge and attorneys came and went to court. When a trial was going on, I would sit on the steps, out of sight of the spectators and listen to the case being tried. Some­time in the winter, my mother would send me by Mrs. John Helms’ house, a block to the north, to buy a half-gallon of milk for a nickel, while she went by Glenn Scott’s grocery for some fresh oy­sters, and we would have oyster stew with celery on the side. First, though, we would have a few raw ones. She would pick them out, put them on a saucer, and we would eat them whole on a single cracker with salt, pepper and horseradish---still the only fit way to eat a raw oyster! We didn’t put catsup on raw oysters, but we did put some in the stew, along with plenty of butter and salt and pepper.
During these years, Brother Robert played baseball on New London’s town team. They played on Sunday afternoon at Mineral Springs Park, near Frankford. They traveled to many nearby towns for away-from-home games. Bob's wife, Virginia, nearly always went, and they took me. They also took my mother and me to St. Louis at least once per summer to see the Cardinals. Once when Babe Ruth was ending up his career with the old Boston Braves, we went to see him play in a double-header against Dizzy Dean and his brother, Paul. As I remember, Dizzy pitched the first game, and Babe did not get a hit. He could barely run, and to see the great hero like that was pathetic. That night we went to a movie at one of the fine downtown theatres. It was starring Mae West. I remember my mother saying, "This is just too much--to see Dizzy and Paul, Babe Ruth and Mae West all in one day!" Bob was an excellent defensive catcher in baseball, and then in the winter season, he and his friend, Stanley Smith managed the J. J. Bowles Clothing Store basketball team in Hannibal, the finest semi-pros in that part of the country. They usually won the YMCA League against rival Zim’s Bakery and then played such outstanding barnstormers as Olson1s Terrible Swedes, and the bearded House of David.
Guydoo died in August, 1932, so she was alive for a large part of my mother’s tenure in office. I have memories of her sit­ting in her rocking chair, reading by the light of a kerosene lamp. Sometime in this period, we put in electric lights, and I remember this. Our ceilings were twelve feet high, and the first lights consisted of a single bulb, suspended from a wire coming down from the center of the ceiling. It was a clear bulb with a wire mak­ing a loop inside. The electric system was “25 cycle.” which was later was upgraded to 60 cycle.
Never did we have “running water” or indoor plumbing in our home. We had a well on the back porch. It was a cistern, but it “known far and wide" for its superior drinking water. My folks always thought there was a spring there in addition to the cistern, and this makes sense, considering how close we were to the public spring. The cistern worked from drainpipes coming off the roof of the house, with a switch in the pipe at the well so the water could be directed into the well, or diverted onto the lawn outside. In rainy times, we would wait until the rain had washed off the roof, then we would switch the water into the cistern. Just inside the kitchen door, we had a washstand with a water bucket, a dipper for drinking or pouring and a wash pan. It was my job to keep fresh water in the bucket and to keep the reservoir on the back of the cook stove filled. This required several buckets a day which I pumped from the cistern. This pump was the type that had a crank, a wheel and a chain with rubber gaskets that pulled the water from the depths of the well up through a pipe to the spout. The chain with the rubbers went over the wheel and back down into the well. Occasionally I would observe in more prosperous households a great invention. Some people had a pump in the kitchen, one whose handle you worked up and down and water came out the spout and into the sink. Miss Mary Lyng had one which I could observe when I was inside resting up from my squirrel hunt and eating home-cured country ham and grape jelly on biscuits.
At home we had an "ice-box," a short, squat oak cabinet affair where in could be placed 50 lbs. of ice underneath, with scant room above for milk, eggs and other perishables. After electric refrigerators came in, the ice-man “no longer cometh." We did not have a refrigerator, so my mother placed the milk and butter in a bucket and hung it from the floor of the back porch down to the foot of the stairs leading to the fruit cellar underneath Aunt Mandy’s bedroom. Our bird dog, Glad, learned that back underneath the open stairs the dirt was naturally air conditioned, and this was his refuge from the IOO-degree summer heat.
The entire back half of our lot was devoted to garden, but each year we put it entirely in potatoes, with maybe a few short rows of something else, but not much. In the spring we hired a black man Uncle John Estell, to plow the garden. Uncle John had a black horse and a white one which he hitched to the plow. In mid-morning, he would un­hitch the horses, and with harness still in place he and I would ride the horses to the "public spring,” at the edge of town a couple of blocks away. I recall sitting on this huge animal, clutching the manes and remaining there while he drank great draughts of the cool water flowing out from the spring. The spring itself was encased in concrete with a two-foot square opening in the center. I recall many times when a little playmate and I lain on our stomachs peering down into the clear depths while water skippers hopped about on the surface and an occasional spotted "spring frog” made an appearance.
Upon completion of the plowing we would drop seed potatoes in the furrow Uncle John had plowed. Guydoo and my mother cut the pieces from potatoes still in our cellar. Uncle John would come along behind us and cover them up with his plow. When they were harvested in the summer, we put them in huge wooden boxes in the cellar under our house, and they lasted us throughout the winter. In the spring, those remaining would be used for seed. By that time long white sprouts would be coming out of the eyes reaching for the light. In the side lot to the north there were apple and pear trees, and I gathered up the fallen ones and sold them by the bucketful to our neighbors for 10¢ per bucket.
In our home were folding beds; large pieces of wooden furni­ture that stood upright with a full-length mirror on the front. At bedtime, one reached up and turned a handle which unlocked the bed. The bed pulled forward and as it neared the floor, metal legs swung from the top on each side, and the foot of the bed came to rest upon them on the floor. Bedclothes and pillows were strapped to the bed. For several years I slept with my mother in the living room, and later had my own folding bed in the dining room. Never in my home did I ever sleep in a different kind of bed. ~~o of our beds were walnut and one was oak. When my mother died in 1962, we had these three folding beds --relics of a day long past and of no use to anyone. Brother Robert gave them away to whoever would take them.
Robert, shortly after his shoe factory days, got a job with the Citizen's Discount and Investment Co., whose office was at the "foot" of Broadway in Hannibal, just a little more than a block from the Mississippi River, and sometimes during floods the water would be several inches deep in their office. There he met and on Novem­ber 18, 1928, married Virginia Becker, and they continued to work for Citizens together until they retired.
Bob and Virginia and Virginia's family became an important part of my boyhood. We hunted and fished with Virginia's brother, Francis Becker, and were close to his wife, Irene. When Bob came quail hunting with his farm friends near New London, he usually took me, so I learned to follow bird dogs and hunt quail at an early age. Frequently Bob and Virginia came for Sunday dinner at noon. My mother admitted to being able to fry delicious chicken which we usually had. She disclaimed that she could bake anything. Of course, baking had to be done in the oven of an inconsistent wood stove, or later on, with a kerosene or "coal oil" stove, fully as bad. We never found anything wrong with her cherry pie, but she preferred to buy an Angel food cake at Kroger’s and serve it with Del Monte peach halves. My mother had nice dinner service. He had Havilland china plates, cut-glass water glasses, some cut-glass bowls and heavy silver-plate silver ware. The ice for tea was chipped from a block with an ice-pick and a hammer, so there was little room left for tea.
When I was in the seventh grade, Bob and Virginia and Virginia's brother, Francis Becker and his wife, Irene, took me with them for a week's vacation in Wisconsin, fishing on Lake Mason at Briggsville, using their Uncle's cabin. This was a marvelous experience, and I have been trying ever since to catch as many fish.
I learned to swim in Turkey Creek west of New London when I was nine years old. It turned out to be one of the things I did best, and certainly it was one that I did the most. In the summer, hardly a day passed that did not include swimming in Turkey Creek, Spencer Creek, or Salt River, and it is a blessing my dear mother did not know all the things we did. She was a wise woman. Now I realize it was a part of her great wisdom not to ask. Probably also it was a part of her great faith. She said many times that she felt God's presence with her all the time.
My closest boyhood friend was Hamp Hays. We did everything together. We swam, fished, explored, caught butterflies with nets made from sugar sacks and coat hangers, then mounted our collection on a board. We fished in the millpond for crawdads, catching them with a piece of fat meat on a string which we dangled from a willow pole. When we felt one, we would lift him gently out of the water and allow him to drop into a coffee can. We did not eat them but often gave them to the black boys fishing off the opposite bank.
My mother's most famous recipe was for noodle soup. At my insistence she taught Mary Catherine, and she now does it just as well. Brother Jesse will attest to this. So would Hamp Hays, for whenever we were going to have noodle soup at home, my mother would tell me to bring Hamp home for lunch. Years later Hamp and his wife, Fern, lived in Denver where I saw them occasionally in my work on the railroad, and they became friends to Harry J. and Jane when they were at School of Mines at Golden. Hamp would call or stop on his way to and from New London, and once or twice Mary Catherine had him for noodle soup.
Once, when Bob was working at the shoe factory and still living at home, a World War I barnstorming pilot came to New London and gave airplane rides. This was an old World War I biplane, and he landed in a pasture at the old fairgrounds. Like many of the boys of our town, I rode out on my bicycle and learned that he charged $1.00 per ride, and took two boys at a time, sitting together in the open cockpit. I peddled back home and asked Bob for a $1.00, but he would give me only 50¢ and said perhaps he would take me for that. I peddled back and told the pilot I had only 50¢. He said since I was small he would put me in the middle between Jack Small and Ward Blackwell, and this is what he did. He flew around New London, and now and then he would give us a thrill by doing a couple of dips and banking sharply so we could see the ponds and houses below. When we came in to land, I remember he cut the motor, but restarted it when it appeared we might not clear the fence.
Once perhaps about 1930, the word was passed in our town that volunteers were wanted to assemble at the courthouse to go to a lo­cation several miles east of town to search for a woman who was missing. She was a young farm woman who lived with her husband in a remote part of the county, several miles east of town. I had never been in the vicinity before. For some reason, we seldom went very far east. There must have been 25 or 30 boys who responded and rode in the back of a large bobtail truck to the farm. We spread out a few feet apart and started searching through the woods and fields. In less than an hour, we heard shouts that the woman had been found. I was one of those who went to the scene. She was lying on her back on the grassy bank of a small ravine, neatly dressed, fully clothed, but with a small brown bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. There was a revolver beside her, or in her hand. All we ever knew about her was that she was a "foreigner" who had come from one of the eastern European countries and that she had been lonely and depressed.
Sometime around 1928, U.S. Highway 61 was paved through New London. After much controversy, it went down our Main Street, pass­ing in front of the courthouse which was a showplace. It was the oldest in the State of Missouri having been built in 1858 of native Ralls County limestone, and it was the model for the Missouri exhibit at the New York World's Fair in the 60's. My mother said the Recor­der's office had deeds on file dating back to 1820. The paving crew came to town and were there for several weeks. Of course, there were no motels, and it was customary in those days for many folks to take in roomers. My mother took two men (one of them was named Harry) ­and he drove a dump truck that hauled gravel from the gravel pit to the paving machine, then went back for another load. I rode with him in the truck, and each small boy adopted his own truck driver to ride with. There must have been 15 or 20 trucks, each with a boy passen­ger. A few years later, our cousin, "Aunt Blanche" Megown, who lived on our street, was struck and killed as she tried to cross the highway on her way to the Baptist Church.
When I was about 12, a Hr. Hargiss of the St. Louis Star-Times called on my mother and me to see if I would become their carrier to introduce the afternoon Star-Times to our town to compete with the morning Global Democrat and Post-Dispatch. We accepted, and for sev­eral years I carried this paper, riding my bicycle allover town. The papers arrived on the bus from St. Louis about 4:30 PM. I had to acquire all my customers, but I was given premiums to use as induce­ments for a six-month subscription. The most popular one was an alarm clock, rose, green or blue, made of a ceramic-type material. I had about 20 customers. I delivered rain or shine, and one was almost struck by lightening when it hit Shag Gutter's house while I was throwing a paper.
I have mentioned the neighbors on two of the three corners of our intersection, and the other ones were the Yeager’s, who ran a store. They were a fine family, active in our Christian Church. Their son, Harold, called “Tubby” and his wife, Lucy, lived there later. Our children knew them when we were visiting in New London and played with the Yeager children.
My mother always preached safety. She would never let us burn leaves or trash when there was a wind. She always taught us never to throw kerosene on a blaze, but to put it on before light­ing. In fact, most of the time we used a mixture of wood ashes and kerosene as a starter for the stoves and any other fire. Back in those depression times, people learned to clean their clothes at home with naphtha, and my mother did this and thought she was very careful. She always put a galvanized washtub on an old chair with no back and put it in the middle of the backyard, far away from the house and outbuildings. One bright, sunshiny morning, she was dipping a silk dress in and out of a shallow quantity of naphtha in the bottom of the tub when suddenly the entire thing ignited as she leaned over the tub. Her dress, hair and eyebrows all caught fire, but with great presence of mind she pulled her dress off over her head, and this extinguished the flames on her person. Forever after she bore a bad scar on her arm from the blazing dress that she pulled over her head. We learned the silk dress had generated static electricity which ignited the naphtha fumes.
Aunt Mandy Hornback was a quilter, and when she and Sally moved in with us, she brought her quilting frames, and we set them up in her room. Quilting frames have end pieces with holes on each end, the side pieces, which are rollers, fit into them, and the quilt can be moved by rolling it to either side so various locations are accessible to the quilters. This was Aunt Mandy's hobby, and she quilted every day, almost all day--except Sunday for Sunday the quilting frames had to be put away and were not brought out until Monday. This was another one of my little chores, and Aunt Mandy taught me to quilt. I learned the smaller the stitches, the better, and I learned such names as Monkey Wrench, Double Wedding Ring, etc. Once Grandma Briscoe asked to inspect my work. (I think Aunt Mandy may have been doing a quilt for her.) Aunt Mandy point it out, but Grandma got in the wrong place and looked at some of Aunt Mandy’s stitching. “Not bad for a kid,” she said.
In the summer of 1933, the World's Fair, called “A Century of Progress,” opened on the lake front in Chicago. I had completed sophomore year in high school when we received word from Uncle and Aunt Lena that they were going to the Fair and invited me to meet them in Chicago. I was to assist in staying with Little Jerry, age 5, and Mary Elizabeth, age 3, at the hotel, when needed. I accepted, of course, and arranged to go to Chicago on the morning Burlington train from Hannibal. My instructions were to take a taxi to the Hotel Stevens on Michigan Avenue--then the largest hotel in the world. It was later acquired by the Hilton chain and became The Hilton.
I set out for Chicago my little bag. (I think it was the same one I used for my basketball clothes) My seatmate turned out to be a pleasant young businessman. When he learned where I was going, he said he was walking right by The Stevens, and he would take me there if I cared to go with him. I think he was walking to the Illinois Central Railroad Station a few blocks beyond. I went with him, and when I walked into that grand lobby there was the Briscoe family awaiting me. We had a beautiful room; I went to the Fair; and I baby sat the kids at least one evening while Uncle and Aunt went out to dinner. Afterward, we all returned on the train to Hannibal and New London. They were in a Pullman, and I was again in the chair car. I admonished Uncle to be sure I was awake when it came time to get off at Hannibal. He did so, but grumbled that it was the first time he had ever heard of a Pullman passenger getting up to go up and wake someone in the chair cars!
The summer of 1934, Aunt and Uncle invited me to spend the summer with them in Amarillo, Texas. I went to Amarillo, I think accompanied by Brother Jesse, on the train. He must have been taking a vacation from his job in the Signal Department of the railroad, or perhaps was laid off for a short time. I have a vague recollection of going across Missouri on the old Wabash, of the wonders of the enormous Kansas City Union Station, and of Brother Jesse using his employee status to get us into the employees' dining room where Fred Harvey's restaurant prices were cheaper. I remember his tell­ing me that there would be no more coal smoke and cinders, for west of Kansas City the Santa Fe's trains were all oil burners. In Amarillo, I took care of Uncle's lawn (I told him I was the Yardmas­ter) and he paid me a few dollars per week. They sent me to church camp at Ceta Glen Canyon near Happy, Texas (I didn't want to go) but the experience made a life-long impression upon me. All but Uncle spent an entire month in the New Mexico mountains 15 miles west of Las Vegas up the Gallinas (Guy-een-as) Canyon near Evergreen Val­ley. We stayed in the cabin of Uncle's nephew, John Mayhall of Clovis. Uncle drove us there and stayed a few days before returning to his job. Miss Susie Wyckoff, a spinster school teacher from Well­ington went along also. Miss Susie taught me to make a charcoal drawing. I still have it framed on the wall of my study.
Now I realize that we were fast approaching a critical time in my mother's plans for my future. These depression days were hard, and there was no money for a college education. We talked about courses to prepare for Civil Service jobs, such as a Rail\'ray Hail Clerk, etc., and we talked about my working my way through college.
My mother had a very influential political friend in our veteran congressman, Clarence Cannon. He had been in Washington about 30 years and was a leader in the House of Representatives. It was decided I should apply for an appointment to the Naval Academy. Con­gressman Cannon told my mother he would appoint me as a third alternates my senior year so that I could take the written examination to familiarize me with the form. Then he would appoint me as the principal the following year, and during the summer I could take a preparatory course from an Admiral who ran a school for such purpose in Columbia, Mo., and thus pick up some math that I had never had in my small high school. As a young boy, I had terrible toothaches.
My mother and Guydoo would heat pads on the kerosene lamp chimneys and on the heating stove and hold them on my jaw to relieve the ex­cruciating pain. As a result, I had several molars extracted. I took the written examinations in Hannibal, and also had a Navy physical. The physical disclosed that I did not have the minimum requirement of the number of teeth and also that I had malocclusion; both of which were disqualifying defects. To be certain, Hannibal sent me to the District office in St. Louis. That office told us that such defects could be waived only by the Academic Board upon my arrival at Annapolis after passing the written examinations. We decided the risk of failure was too great, so my mother thanked Con­gressman Cannon, and we gave up.
The following summer I again went to Amarillo, and again we spent a month on the Gallinas, but in a different cabin. In August I returned to New London and learned that my mother had arranged for me to attend Chillicothe, Mo. Business College. She had taken the $400 we had planed to pay the Admiral and made an advance payment for nine months' board and room at Chillicothe. By so doing she had received a 20% discount. I lived in the dormitory, Empire Hall, and ate in the dining hall, and at the end of nine months I got a job as an assistant in the typing department and went to school another seven months. Near the end of my course, I applied for a job with Santa Fe, and they hired me as a stenographer at Slaton, Texas, where I went to work January 4, 1937. I might say that Chillicothe guaranteed its graduates a job, but most of them were around $75 per month. I started at $115, an unheard of salary for me! I was able to buy clothes and sent my mother $400 during the year.
After one year, Santa Fe made some consolidations, and because I had the least service, my job was cut off at Slaton. However, they helped me find another, and in January, 1938, I went to work in the Public Relations Department at Topeka. It was here that I met Mary Catherine Brown, the greatest blessing of my life.
Now, as we celebrate the passing of fifty wonderful years, I see that we, like children, can not know what is best for us. In retrospect, I have often considered what might have happened had I had a full mouthful of teeth and had been able to enroll at the Naval Academy. I would have been in the same class as John F. Kennedy and perhaps I would not have survived my PT boat in the Pacific. Another thing is certain. I would never have met Mary Catherine Brown, and had there been a story such as this, many of the readers would have been different!

 
“AS I REMEMBER"
1917 - 1942
Mary Catherine Briscoe 1992
My earliest memories seem to be at about age five, which was the time my family moved from the new little white bungalow on East Street in Olpe, KS., where I was born on January 2, 1917, to the north end of Iowa St. - "Rosedale" farm where we had 80 acres, a large house, barn, other farm buildings and a pond. It had an established garden, fruit trees and a vineyard. I remember getting to ride on a wagon that was moving some of our household goods.
There were five of us then - Papa, Mama, Helen, Buddy and me. Veronica had died of ptomaine poisoning at age three, on her birthday, August 3, 1916, a few months before I was born.
1917 was the year World War I ended, and the terrible flu epi­demic was nearly over. My parents had helped many through those difficult times. Shortages and rationing were a problem. Mama was ingenious in the home with cooking, sewing and caring for others. She never failed to sing while she worked, al­though nearly always sad ballads, I realize now. She laughed easily. Papa was an ambitious, hard working man; he was proud of Mama and his family, and added interests in jobs numerous times in order to better provide. His first interest was cattle, real estate, hardware and some in oil. He was not a farmer but a businessman. He was a community leader. Business­es prospered "and things in the country were on the mend.
Olpe was settled by German and French immigrants, mostly Cath­olic, whose families sought religious guidance and quality ed­ucation for the children. Many of the settlers were craftsmen, carpenters and gardeners. They all knew how to work to provide food from orchards, gardens and vineyards. Most of them knew the art of wine making.
Through the years, "Rosedale" grew in stature and in family, making three girls and five boys. Papa succeeded in increas­ing his livestock interests. He raised, fed, bought and sold cattle; 40 - 50 head of white faced steers each year. He leased a pasture in the country, several miles away. In the evenings we children rode with him over the bumpy roads and through the pasture to feed "Lassy" to the cattle. The molasses flavor smelled good and we were often tempted to taste it, but Papa said “No”. He shipped cattle by rail on the Santa Fe to Fort Worth, St, Joe, Denver, Omaha and Kansas City. Often he accom­panied them, riding in the caboose. We helped on horseback move the cattle to pens for loading. Papa often brought us a jar of fancy twisted stick candy from the city. Eventually, Papa purchased a livestock trailer truck to haul the cattle to the Kansas City market. My cousin, Charlie Hellen, drove the truck, and when Buddy was old enough, he drove.
 
It was necessary to build two silos and another pond for ade­quate feed and water for the cattle housed in the lot at "Rosedale". Enough grain was grown on the 80 acres to fill the two silos. Hired hands, my older cousins Johnny and Lou Nuessen, cared for the crops. Lou yodeled. The neighbors called asking what the strange noise was coming from our barn. The Nuessen's were a singing family. Johnny, a fine tenor, sang in the church choir, and always a solo "O Holy Night" at Christmas Midnight Mass. The Nuessen family had a surrey with fringe on top. Hand­somely, they rode to church with their proud horse trotting the way.
Being one of the oldest in the family, it was my chore at times to feed the cattle in the morning before school. It was a treat to work outdoors early in the morning. I loved the smell of the fresh silage and enjoyed the grateful mooing of the cattle as they savored it. After this chore, as we called it, a hearty breakfast was welcomed - usually biscuits and gravy, or home­made bread and cottage cheese. We had our own milk and eggs.
All of us attended St. Joseph's Catholic School under the guid­ance of the Franciscan Nuns, and just a few blocks away. We walked, of course, joining classmates along the way. We went home for our noon meal. Regularly, country children passed us in their horse drawn buggy. On rainy or snowy days, Papa brought our lunch to school, each in our own brown bag. He had bought it at the grocery store. It was usually a bologna sandwich on bought white bread. That was a treat. Maybe we had a cookie too, or piece of fruit. We each had our own drinking cup for water.
Mama loved flowers. She always had a lovely, formal flower gar­den. Now, since I've had the opportunity to visit Europe and view the beautiful flower gardens and parks, I think of Mama and her landscape talents. She had pathways edged with rocks and iris, and a bench with trellis, much like Monet's. We were only allowed in this lovely fenced area to admire, to meditate, study, play lady with our dolls, have tea parties or enjoy the surroundings quietly. The boys were not allowed to pull their wagon or play ball in there. They had their own ball field be­side the house where there was not a blade of grass.
Mama also sewed for us. My sisters and I had pretty dresses, coats and hats. Everyone wore a hat.
Our No.1 pond was for playing. We had a row boat and an old wooden tub. We fished using a safety pin for a hook. Our catch was crawdads or perch which Mama willingly fried for us. This pond froze over in the winter. It was large but not very deep, so was usually safe for skating. My January birthday was often celebrated with a skating party. Now, when I attend high school reunions, my classmates remember those times. We had a big log fire, to warm our toes and fingers. We also skated on the frozen creeks winding through the woods in the country.

 
We raised a big garden and canned vegetables and fruit. Papa was the best with a hoe. He kept the garden weed less with his sharp hoe. He cleaned the hoe after each use. He was an art­ist at hoeing the garden. Dry root vegetables - potatoes, carrots and turnips were kept in the cool cellar along with crocks of sauerkraut, pickles, apples, the wine barrel and home brew. I can still imagine those good smells. One fall, when my younger sister, Virginia, was quizzed by her teacher, a Nun, as to what she had done during the summer, she replied "I helped Papa bottle beer".      >
We children used to walk around the SG acres and pick wild flowers. There were so many interesting things to explore out there. Birds, rabbits and mice in the stubble fields and tall grass. A big grove of trees provided shade for rest.
Perhaps my growing up years were more affluent than my young­er siblings. As I remember, we always had nice things - new towels each spring, new varnish on the floors and woodwork and nice curtains.
My sister, Helen, the oldest, eight years older than I, was a beautiful lady always. She had her own room. She had many friends and privileges. She played the piano, sang, went places and was so smart. We kids loved to listen in on her friends' conversations and giggles. Surely we embarrassed her at times. Helen was a great help to Mama. She cared for the younger children too, and often took us to the creek for a pic­nic and fishing. We had a fine pony, trained to pull a cart. Helen was an expert at handling them. We used to decorate the harness with wild flowers.
Before our road was graveled, the road grader would smooth it so slick we could roller skate on it. Sometimes, Mama would invite the road workmen for a noon meal in place of their cold lunch, especially in the winter.
My brother, Buddy, was my pal. We have lots of pictures to­gether, that was another interest of Mama's, capturing happy moments with the camera.
Mama was a proud lady - a real lady. She wore pretty dresses and hats. She had a lovely sealskin coat and was a little put out when another lady showed up in church with one like it.
Papa was an active member of the Knights of Columbus and served as Grand Knight. (He was buried in his full dress suit). This entitled him to attend conventions in other cities. One time Mama went with him to French Lick, IN. She prepared for the trip by going on a diet and losing 30 pounds so she could get into pretty clothes. I can still see her shredding carrots and cabbage. Several times I attended meetings in the State with Papa - to Topeka and Manhattan.

 
Virginia, four years my junior, was a pretty girl with golden hair. She always sang too. She and I shared a bedroom which we redecorated periodically. Once it was lavender, green and yellow. I wish I had the ornamental white wrought iron bed now. Our bedroom was upstairs on the front with a double win­dow to the south. At night, as car headlights shined through the window onto the wall, we imagined we were watching a movie as shadows of leaves and tree branches made shapely designs on the wall.
Our house had four bedrooms upstairs and two downstairs •. Helen had one upstairs; Buddy, Norbert and. Justin shared the big one, and the fourth was used for storage. Fritz and Harry slept down­stairs. The upstairs rooms were connected by cubby hole passage­ways around the perimeter which were fun. Once we found a bee hive in the store room. Honey was running down the wall. We in­vited our friends for a lick. I don't remember how we got rid of them. We also had a rain barrel. Once the flu caught fire but telephone the alert was out and I can remember men and boys forming a bucket brigade from the rain barrel to extinguish the fire. The rain water was really for washing our hair.
When I was 11, Helen and Albert Haag were married on January 11, 1928, and Helen was gone from home. I was given a pair of silk stockings to wear for the occasion, so I rolled up my long cotton underwear way above my knees and proudly wore the hose. The lump under my dress didn't show much. Virginia was the flower girl. She had a lovely blue georgette dress with match­ing shoes. Helen's family became our family as they always lived nearby. We were never without children. Even now, their children fill our lives.
My younger brothers arrived in fast succession. Five young boys in the family kept everyone busy. Washing was a major task, al­though we had a wash house with a gas plate to heat water. We hung clothes outdoors, winter or summer. Ironing was a job, as the boys wore dress shirts and tie to school.
Papa provided a ball field in our pasture near the grove, and every Sunday afternoon a ball game took place. The whole town participated, as well as neighboring towns. I can remember the dust the traffic stirred UD. Some men furnished a stock tank full of pop cooled with 100# cakes of ice. My love for cream soda began there. Besides the ball game, we had a chance to meet other young people.
The boys practiced ball daily and got pretty good. Harry, be­ing the youngest and smallest, was forever getting in the way of a runner, a ball or bat. Buddy would rush him to the house telling Mama "he's knocked out again” Justin and Fritz event­ually became a battery for a Council Grove team. Later, Harry and Fritz were professional umpires - Fritz in the West Texas ­New i'1exico League, and Harry in the Pioneer and Western Leagues. They had attended George Barr Umpire School in Florida. Harry later umpired in Germany for the Armed Forces World Series.

 
By the time I was in high school, the stock market dropped dras­tically and the depression struck. Everyone felt it. With all of us to feed and clothe, and with shortages, especially cash, times were hard. Mama had learned to "make do" and again was ingenious in the home. I was aware of the situation, as was all of the community - our friends and relatives were in the same situation. About the most serious denial I experienced was not being able to get a high school class ring.
My brothers wore hand-me-down clothes, shortened or lengthened, whichever was necessary. Mama remade suits for the boys. Vir­ginia and I learned to sew too, but mostly we did the other work, as sewing was an outlet for Mama and she was good at it. (I can feel the cold scissors on my neck as she tailored a dress to fit properly). The boys always looked nice on their way to serve Mass in those angelic white robes and fresh hair cuts. That was another chore of mine; every Saturday morning to cut the hair of my five brothers. I was provided a hand clippers which I know pulled. They hated the chore, as did I. That's probably the reason Fritz eventually became a barber.
Every Saturday night, shoes were polished and clothes were pressed to be ready for looking our best at Mass on Sunday. Saturday afternoon, we went to church and confession and tried to be good 'til Sunday. Mama always had fresh bread or cake when we came home. A specialty of Mama's was fried bread. The raised dough was snipped off in small pieces, deep fried in hot fat and rolled in sugar.
Aunt Mary and Uncle Milt (he was the Postmaster) came every Sa­turday night in their Model T Coupe to visit and bring a bag of assorted candy from the grocery store. When Buddy was old enough to go out on Saturday night, which probably meant the pool hall down town, I can remember Papa giving him a meager allowance with instructions to buy a pair of socks, save some for the collec­tion box and have fun. Buddy also moved wheat with the wheat har­vest in the summers.
The Knights of Columbus held a dance regularly - sometimes in their hall, or in good weather on a concrete platform outdoors.
A trio of musicians “The Jones”, two brothers and their sister, provided the music. Papa took us and stayed through the even­ing, even danced if necessary. He was there to take us home un­less some young man offered. The evening was an opportunity to be with friends and relatives and possibly meet newcomers from neighboring towns. The Knights of Columbus also held oyster stew night on Fridays when fresh oysters arrived in barrels from the East Coast on the Santa Fe doodle bug train. The train also carried all of the mail as well as regular passengers to work, to school or to shop. It came through Olpe early in the morning and returned mid afternoon. I can hear the clanking of the rails, the mournful whistle and feel the rough track. I wouldn't dare say that after my husband became a Santa Fe official.

 
High school picnics were held in the Flint Hills. We played in the clear, beautiful waters of the Verdigris River, and washed the cars on the low water bridges. A highlight of late summer was cleaning the school building for fall classes. We scrubbed and shined until everything was ready. Nuns taught all the classes. Eight Nuns were assigned to St. Joseph's Parish as teachers, a ninth one served as their cook and housekeeper. My piano teacher was Sr. Florentina, a French lady. There were 16 graduates in my Class of '34.
After high school, I worked for a time in the Post Office for Uncle Milt. This was a nice experience. I then enrolled in a full secretarial course at KSTC in Emporia. ~t was hard for my parents to finance any part of my expenses but they managed to get me started and I got by. I worked at a boarding house for my board and partial room. We served meals to the football team. Here I met, roomed and worked with Joyce McNorton (Kane) from Valley Ralls. Many young people from Olpe attended KSTC and I saw them regularly. I was able to go home often. I never lost the desire to return to Olpe.
Upon completion of my course, and with Papa's cattle connect­ions, he was able to contact the right people at John Morrell & Company in Topeka, where I was hired as secretary to the Claim Manager, Roy Lassen. Roy was also the product of a small-town, so I fit in easily in my new environment. He and Bessie became my friends. Bessie was a star softball pitcher.
I was in the big city, the Capital of the State of Kansas, on my own, with new friends and excitement. At work I met Vir­ginia Whitney (Williams). Together we walked the mile to and from work each day. I lived with Joyce as she worked in Topeka each summer. We had a room and a meal with a family at 1301 Harrison. The family had a nephew who lived at the YMCA and who had met one of the girls at our house. One evening, she told me Art was coming by to see her and bring another fellow from the “Y” and would I accompany them to Grace's for a coke and to dance, reluctantly, I agreed. That other fellow was Harry. We four walked to Grace's for the evening.
Harry knew Bob Williams at the “Y” so we fixed up Virginia and Bob for an evening. They fell in love the first night. Through all of this, I met Irene and Ruth Williams, Bob's sisters, and we see each other regularly.
I thought of home a lot, my younger sister and brothers, and the work load Mama was carrying. Jobs were scarce and wages meager, but family life had not declined.
In 1938, a car accident between Topeka and Emporia badly in­jured Papa, Aunt Mary, Helen, Virginia, Thou ret Lea and baby Charlotte. They had been visiting me in St. Francis Hospital where I had undergone an emergency appendectomy. Mama had been with me earlier. Papa really never regained good health.

 
War was facing the country. My sister, Virginia, went to Wichita to work. One by one, my five brothers enlisted in various services as they became of age. The younger ones couldn't wait to be old enough. Mama was soon a five-star mother. A banner hung in the window, and she planted a pop­lar tree for each as they left home.
More hard times for Papa as he gave up "Rosedale" and moved to a fine old house in Hartford, 18 miles away. It was hard for both Mama and Papa to be starting over in a whole new en­vironment alone; but it was soon home with flowers, vines, bird houses, grandchildren, family and friends. Mama was now busy with letter writing and anticipating letters from her family. Fortunately, Helen and her growing family lived near.
Many cousins, aunts and uncles, were a big part of my life.
My father's three brothers and four sisters had large families. All but two aunts lived in our community. We exchanged visits often. I, being one of the younger cousins, got lots of atten­tion from the older ones. Buddy loved Augie Nuessen and came about to his waist when hugged, and Buddy bit him in the stomach. It was a love bite. Those who lived away in Sharon, Ks. and Atchison, Ks, came for a visit each year. We didn't have guest rooms for them - we just doubled up, made room and enjoyed their company. Occasionally, we visited them. In Sharon, Aunt Kate and Uncle Frank lived near a creek. We played in the clear, sandy bottom water under the bridge and were always cautioned about quick sand. I only knew one grandmother whom we lovingly called "Grosmamall, Papa's mother who died when I was seven.
Two of Mama's sisters lived in Nebraska and one in Olpe. Aunt Rose lived in town in Olpe. She and Mama were great friends as well as sisters and were together often. Aunt Agnes Frey from Fairbury, NE., had two beautiful daughters, Alice and Charlotte. (Charlotte was the ladies department buyer for Emery, Bird and Thayer department store in Kansas City). When they came to visit, they loved to play in the hayloft on the pulley. We kids would swing on the pulley out of the big lift door, back in again, and drop on the hay. One day, Aunt Agnes, thinking that looked like so much fun, wanted to try it. She swung out and back into the loft all right, but let go of the pulley after she cleared the hay. She dropped to the bare floor with such a jolt her glasses and false teeth fell. We were restricted in that fun for awhile.
Safety wasn't our main concern. I remember several instances of injury. Virginia stepped on the outside of a barrel ring ly­ing on the ground. It jumped up and cut her knee. Barefoot,
I walked around some lumber being used for an addition to the back of the house. Someone stepped on the other end of a board my foot was under, and a nail went through the top of my foot. Several miles out in the country, my brothers were horseback riding. Somehow, a horse kicked Buddy in the back of his neck. Blood frightened them all so badly, they suggested Buddy ride the horse quickly into town to the doctor alone, which he did. He walked into the doctor's office and said "can you fix this?" Justin attempted to smoke a fire cracker. He was almost sicker from the lock jaw shot than the burn. Papa lost the end of his forefinger in a stock gate when an animal butted into the gate as he was trying to find the lock in the dark.
Aunt Anna Krebeck never married, and was housekeeper for a priest in Grand Island, NE. She came to see us occasionally and we visited her at the priest's house. They used white linen tablecloths and napkins every day, fine china and crystal and had all the finest of services. She was a sophisticated lady. Mama's brother (the only one I knew) Harry Krebeck and Aunt Estelle, came several times from Neleigh, NE., but he died when I was quite young. Their daughter, Ruby Godkin, continued to live in Neleigh after her parent's deaths. We visited her in Neleigh about 15 years ago on our way home from Yellowstone. Mama, it seemed, was far away from her family and roots, but was busy raising her own big family. One summer, when I was about 11 or 12, we all went to Nebraska to visit the aunts, the old home place, the one-room schoolhouse Mama attended, and the cemetery.
Papa's sister, Mary Katherine Herrington, lived in Olpe too. Hers was our second home. She sewed and mended and crocheted lovely lace curtains and doilies. Those hanging in the bathroom upstairs are some she made more than 75 years ago. Aunt Mary was always ready to help out when a new baby arrived, or in any emergency. Miltie, her son, studied for the priesthood in Lou­vaine, Belgium. Mae, her daughter, a beautiful red head with lily white skin, had married Leo Brinkman, and was already gone from home when I was growing UP. She was older than Helen but they were close friends. Helen was her bridesmaid. Mae loved us all. Even now, Mae's daughter, Sr. Marie Brinkman, Saint Mary College, Leavenworth, and I are close friends and see each other regularly. Marie's brother, Fr. John Vianney Brinkman, served as a Franciscan priest in the Philippines. Another cousin, Sr. Edward Mary Brown at Saint Mary College, is Uncle Pete's daughter. I knew her as Veronica as a child.
Christmas was anticipated for months, and it took forever to arrive. The Christmas tree was a highlight. It glowed with candles, tinsel and beautiful German ornaments. As we all stood around, the candles were lighted for a few minutes. It was beau­tiful! Christmas 'Eve was here! A bugle sounded in the front yard. We nearly froze in our tracks with excitement. Santa Claus was here! It was Leo Brinkman, year after year. With his jolly disposition and smile, he fit the role perfectly. He was a great man, respected and admired. Two of my brothers had his name. He had a gift for everyone. Then, we were off to bed to get a nap before Midnight Mass. We wore our new caps and mittens to church to display and compare with our friends. Aunt Mary had crocheted mine - she was my Godmother.
The church and crib were beautiful - glowing as we lined in pro­cession to adore. Everything was solemn and inspiring - the candles, the incense, the ceremony, the music, the choir, the songs, the readings - that the one and one half hours didn't seem long.
 
St. Joseph's Church had a fine pipe organ and organist, Lillian Lubrecht. The organ was hand pumped - we took our turn at that until it was electrified. The church sexton rang the bell for church, the Angelus, morning, noon and night. That was our clock. It was amazing to watch him pull the heavy rope rhythmically to fit the occasion, joyful or mournful.
After Mass and all the Christmas wishes, we gathered at our dining room table laden with Mama's specialties, including sweets and treats, homemade breads and cinnamon rolls, wonder­ful fruit cake which had been made months ahead, packed in a stone jar, ripened with wine and stored in Mama's cold closet.
Papa always served wine for occasions. Decorated cut-out sugar cookies were also a specialty. Aunt Rose, too, was an artist at sugar cookies. She gave each of us a decorated sugar cookie with our name on it. The cookie was cut with a large coffee can. We all drank coffee with cream and sugar. Mama also made meat deli­cacies - tripe, sausage and scrapple at Christmas. There were always plenty of treats to share with neighbors, shut-ins, teachers, priests and friends. Mama even knew the people in the community with special needs; such as, fresh buttermilk with a dollop of butter on top, or warm milk still fresh with foam on top.
All of our relatives, neighbors and friends celebrated Christmas in much the same way. I especially remember the very large tree of the Frank Bender's. Mr. Bender was my Godfather, so we visit­ed their house every Christmas. Their tree touched the ceiling. It revolved, in the center of the living room, on a two-foot square music box from Germany that was hand wound. Mr. Bender would have been Steve Foncannon's grandfather. Mr. Bender died in Wichita when we lived in Wellington. I paid tribute to him there. They had a large family, so Steve's mother was one of the youngest children.
St. Joseph's Church and school, staffed by Franciscan priests and nuns, was the staple of our family life - our spiritual and social values. Two stained glass windows in the choir loft bear my grandparent's names: Joseph Krebeck - Mary Krebeck.
We walked to church and school and attended Mass daily with our classmates. We learned to pray in school, in church and at home. We began classes each day with prayer, and under the Nun's guid­ance, discipline, which was also carried out at home.
Besides the 3R's, we were introduced to the cultures - music, dra­matic reading, literature and poetry, and encouraged in the class­ics. Our teachers were of the finest, several of them were French. Grade school was on the first floor of the red brick building, and high school on the second. We had a nice auditorium. Spring and Fall Festivals are still a tradition there. That one build­ing housed my 12 years of education in Olpe. Classes were small. Everyone was friends.
We all knew each other's families and everything about them. If anyone got in trouble, parents quickly found out and the problem was handled immediately. We had a jail in town. We all knew the town drunk. I was told he drank vanilla from the grocery store when desperate. We knew the illegitimate children, the mentally ill, the rich, the poor, the sick, and the not so fortunate. Papa helped with them all when needed. We had a local family doctor who took a fine bird dog (an English Setter) as pay for deliver­ing my brother. Papa treated the Nuns to a sleigh ride every winter. It seemed to me the snow piled high and stayed on all winter. Papa had a horse-drawn bob sled. He lined the sled with hay and horsehide blankets and always managed to hit a rough spot that would dump them in a snow drift. That was good for a laugh and everyone had lots of fun.     '
Occasionally, Mama helped Papa plan and prepare a stag party for his friends and business associates. Tables were set up in every room, covered with blankets and plenty of ash trays. They smoked cigars. What went on was always mysterious because early in the evening, we were taken to Aunt Mary's for supper and to spend the night, Mama too.
Papa was elected County Commissioner. How I disliked campaign­ing; but, dutifully did as I was expected to.
We each had friends who lived in the country; and at times when they weren't able to get home because of a storm or trouble of some kind, they were always welcome to stay at our house. I re­member one morning Mama made breakfast for 21 people. Several of us had brought friends home for the night.
A local boy, Ben Bitler, built an airplane in his garage. When he took it up for the first time, he landed in our pasture and took us for a ride. I remember holding the door shut and skimming the telephone wires before we landed safely. He became an official at Boeing in Washington state.
When Knute Rockne's plane crashed near Matfield Green, Papa went with some other men to the site. They brought a piece of the plane, which Fritz had for a long time.
Other special times were Easter, Corpus Christi, Thanksgiving, Baptisms, Confirmation, Graduation, Fourth of July, Labor Day. First Communion Day meant white dress and veil, white shoes and a crystal candle holder for the girls; a black or white Suit white shirt and tie, dark shoes, and again a crystal candle hol­der - as well as new prayer-book. My brother, Norbert's suit was stylish knickers. Each has a portrait of his occasion. Church related occasions called for a procession. National holiday’s days meant a picnic. Many Thanksgivings we attended the KSTC and C of E football game in Emporia in the afternoon. Birthdays al­ways meant a special cake and recognition - not necessarily gifts. Mama's favorite birthday cake to make was white layer cake with lemon filling. We had Halloween parties in homes with home-made doughnuts served from a broomstick handle. We bobbed for apples, and played parlor games. Saint Nicholas Day, December 6, was a warning time to be good for Christmas. A buggy whip swished back and forth under the door from the outside. About the same time a window flew open and a sack of candy and nuts crashed on the floor. Fear was on us.

 
Adjacent to our property lived an old German man, alone. He was dirty and unkempt and we were afraid of him. He tilled his small acreage with a horse drawn plow which he guided. We called him "Brecken". He spoke only German, so we couldn't communicate. At times he would come to the barn and talk to Papa. Several times my brothers found our missing tools at his place. He came to church regularly, stayed in the last pew on his knees the en­tire time. His final days were at the Poor Farm - a County faci­lity. I'm sure now he was hungry and not well. I wish I had known more about him. Papa would never speak German around us children. I'm sorry about that too, now.
Some years we visited the State Fair in Topeka. We drove to Emporia to see the Christmas lights, and at times to view the flood waters of the Cottonwood and Neosho rivers. Dams now pre­vent their flooding.
Once, we went to Topeka to visit Mama's sister, Aunt Agnes Frey, from Fairbury, NE., who was recovering from a severely broken arm. She was hospitalized at the Security Benefit Association Hospital, which insured her. That is now the site of Mennin­ger's. We had taken a picnic lunch which we shared with her on the lawn. I especially remember a burnt sugar cake. Mama had numerous specialties, one was Lemon meringue pie (now Molly makes one as good), another was jelly roll which was Papa's favorite.
Uncle Joe Krebeck, Mama's brother, whom I never knew, weighed 640 pounds and traveled with a circus. He died when an attempt was made to remove 100 pounds of fat from his abdomen. Before the circus, he was connected in some way with a restaurant called “Sacramento Joe's".
In the last few years, I learned from a lady in Olpe, that when my Grandfather Krebeck moved his family from Nebraska to the farm south of Emporia, he and two other families had made the move so their daughters could meet other than Irish men. The families who made the move were the Krebeck's, the Schorer's and the Fladung's. The Krebeck girls were teenagers. Their mother had died when Mama was five. The older girls held the family together and raised them. The boys were older and stayed in Nebraska.
There was only one black man in Olpe. He had been brought there by Harvey Bradfield to work in his lumber yard. He had living quarters above their garage. The entire town lovingly called him “Nigger Bill”. His grave is in the Catholic cemetery in Olpe. His marker reads “William Martin Brewer", 1854-1938. We knew a few railroad ad men in town. A section gang foreman and some of his gang lived there. The turnover was not large ­people didn't change much.
I realize now that it was the way of the Church, the Community and times in which I grew up, and my place in the family, that made such an impression on my life and gave me these cherished memories of my childhood.

Grandparents BROWN  -  Nicholas and Elizabeth
    Children
Nick & Barbara Trear           John, Barbara, George, Lizzie, Lou. 
   
 
Matt & Emma Trear                 Matt, Lawrence, Anna, Louise, Raymond, Josephine, Clara, Martha, Leonard.
 
Pete & Barbara Domme            Nick, Mary, Delphine, Margaret, Joe Sylvester, Pete, Wilhomena, Veronica.
 
Jake & Josephine Krebeck       Helen, Mary Catherine, Jacob, Jr., Virginia, Norbert, Justin, Fritz, Harry.  


Barbara & Herman Nuessen    Nick, Herman, Mary, John, Lawrence, Anne, Gertrude, Lou, August, Eleanor, Lucy.
 
Lizzie and Pete Beien           Lou, Lavina, Fred.
 
Kate & Frank Loewenstein       Josephine, Mary, Margaret, Loretta, Veronica, Francis, Albert.
 
Mary & Milt Herrington            Mae, Milt
 
 
Grandparents KREBECK        Mary and Joseph
 
Anna
 
Agnes & Dick Frey                   Alice, Charlotte
 
Mary – nun
 
Harry & Estelle                        Ruby Godkin
 
Ed & Elzade
                                               
Frank & Ethel                          Had two sons, after his death, Ethel remarried and the both were adopted under the name of Smith.
 
Joe
 
Josephine & Jake Brown         Helen, Mary Catherine, Jacob, Jr., Virginia, Norbert, Justin, Fritz, Harry.
 
Rose & Charles Hellen             Charlie, Rose.
 
 
BROWN Jacob Lawrence Brown – Josephine Elmira Krebeck Brown
BROWN Children:
Jacob Lawrence Brown - Josephine Elmira Krebeck Brown;
Helen and Albert Haag:              Arthur and Dee
Howard and Marilyn                                  Roger and Marsha
Rose Marie Pfaff                                                Virginia and Vern Penney
Shirley and Al McAnarney                          Cathy and Phil Brady
Thouret Lea and Ed Gaughan                              Connie Rogers
Ida Jo Swisher                                         Alberta and Bob Smith
Charlotte and Dale Swisher                                 Mark and Karen
Mary Catherine and Harry Briscoe:
Harry J., Jr. and Jane Ann
Molly Anne and Don Morris
David and Cindy
Jacob L., Jr., (Buddy) and Eileen Ludwig:
Sandra and Stan Schroeder                                Marsha and John Swearingen
Rickey and Nancy                                     Daniel and Sandy
Jan and Alan Hire                                     Nita and Ed Obermier
Paul and Linda                                       David and Ishelle
Virginia and Delbert Stevenson:
Sid and Sandy                                                 Richard and Marcia     
Peggy and Jay Wieland                                       Sally and Kim Pargman
Beverley and Randy Kelley                           Kenny and Lynn  
Patrick and Brenda
Norbert and Jean Finfrock;
Ethel Kay Deichman                                  Leonne
Joe and Teckla                                                 Mark and Patty   
    John and Diane
Justin and Marian Stinson;
Cindy and Jim Faulkner                             Barry and Diane
Pam and Vince Crewey                                       Melissa
    Cara and Orvin Bontrager
Fritz and Dorthy Baker:
Denise and Ken Schmidt                            Rhonda     
Gary      Rusty
Harry and Edna Lieker:
Scot and Linda
Heidi and Pat Becker