Celebrating a Life.

 Not long after they moved from the ranch to the new home a routine gall bladder surgery for continual digestive problems turned into a life sentence. In October of 1960, Daddy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and given six months to a year to live. 

My parents made the most of the time they had left together. That fall and winter they worked making the new home more comfortable for Mom. It was not the log home Mom had envisioned but a large single wide trailer on a basement, with room for grown children and grandchildren to visit…Daddy felt good enough (pain was kept down with medication) in early spring, so they signed on with a fishing charter on the salmon river out of Riggins, Idaho. Mom would cook for the guests and Daddy would help her in the kitchen, do outside chores and also help the guide with the guests. It was a wonderful time for them, more like a vacation than a job. Back at the new home, I had finished beauty school and came home to live and make preparations for my June wedding. It was a bitter/sweet day when Daddy walked me down the aisle on June 10th. Daddy spent several months in the hospital and died on October 15, 1961, age 54. 

  Although “Celebrations of Life” were not done in the 60’s, after Daddy’s funeral we did celebrate arrived with food, enough to feed a small army. Family and friends joined together eating, talking and laughing as we reminisced about the many good times in Daddy’s life, his accomplishments, his sense of humor, his kind heart and his straight forward thinking. He was a jovial person but prone to give his opinions, of which he had many. We talked about and shared the many sayings that peppered his everyday speech, and the swear words he used to express himself. 

That evening Mom and we five “kids” returned to the cemetery to pay our respects and say our last goodbyes. I noticed the sign on the gate leading into the cemetery it said “Dead End”. My Dad would have thought that extremely funny and it struck me that way as well. Daddy never wanted to be buried but cremation wasn’t common then. He didn’t like the idea of being put in a cement vault in the ground, and said, “I don’t want my body turning to jelly instead of dust, why don’t you just sharpen my head and pound me into the ground like a post?” We laughed over this idea while he was still alive. And many times after a long work day, he would make the remark that with his luck he wouldn’t get to rest after he died, because resurrection would probably come on the day after. That didn’t happen and maybe in the ensuing fifty years he has been able to rest. Now when I’ve been at the cemetery for short visits, I hear whistling through the trees, his voice murmuring:  “They did it anyway; dressed me in a suit and tie, put me in a God Damn cement box and covered me with dirt. Not my choice.”

Our Dad, left this life, not a wealthy man, but rich in many ways. He was loved and respected by family and friends and we were blessed to have him enrich our lives.

Another lesson.

For the next ten years Daddy, with Mom at his side, improved their property by remodeling the house, adding a bathroom and developing a new water system. By using good farming practices the land became more fertile, which meant better crops and any extra money was invested in more land. By this time, my brother George’s family was growing and he found a steady job in the logging industry and helped on the farm when he had days off. Mona and I became Daddies right hand “men”, always with him whether it was milking cows, taking care of the animals or harvesting the crops. Mona was especially good on horseback and spent most of her time riding the range, checking on the animals and moving them to better pasture when needed. We could both drive at the age of ten and spent much more time on a tractor, wearing jeans and T-shirts than in the house learning how to cook, sew or do laundry.

I remember learning how to mow hay on a hot July day. All of Daddies jobs were stacking up as he had hay that was ready to bale and a field that needed mowing. After breakfast that morning he said, “Della, do you think you can mow that field of alfalfa today?”  “I think so Daddy, I’ve driven the tractor and raked hay lots of times. I would like to mow because I love the smell of freshly cut alfalfa.” “Mowing is a little different than raking, you have to be very careful of what you are doing, with the power take off and the sickle blade both to worry about. Come with me now and I’ll get you started. We’ll see how you do.”

After about four rounds of Daddy riding on the tractor with me, I was able to push or pull the right lever to raise the sickle at the end of every row, make a big wide turn and come back around, then lower the sickle and start cutting right where I had left off. I had such a feeling of pride that I could again help my dad, so his workload was lessened.

“Okay Sister, looks like you’ve got it, just keep the tractor in this gear, don’t try to go any faster and pay attention!  I’ll be back at lunch time to see how you are doing.”

We all worked hard, played very little, but it was never enough. Several years in the early spring both Mom and Dad worked in the local potato cellars sorting and cutting potatoes for the spring planting. They did everything possible to bring in extra money to survive the long winters. I’ve heard a trite saying, “If one works hard, he will be lucky.”  That didn’t happen with my Dad; no matter how hard he worked he again found himself drowning in debt. 

Mona and I had both graduated from high school; she married in 1956 and moved back East and I started Cosmetology School in June of 1960. That left Daddy without a “right hand man”, he couldn’t do all the farming himself. The decision was made to sell the ranch.

A buyer was found, equipment auctioned off, debts paid. A new place to live was built on a knoll overlooking the valley and Jug Handle Mountain. It looked like Daddy’s luck might change. He could work odd jobs that would bring in enough money for them to live a simple life. Maybe travel a little, enjoy grandchildren, and even have time to go fishing. It would be like retirement but he could still keep busy.

Lessons with Daddy

 I’ll never forget when Daddy taught me to fry lamb chops and make gravy. When I was twelve Mom spent a week in Utah with my older sister, helping her after the birth of a new baby. Daddy and I “batched it”. Both Mom and I helped Daddy outside, doing chores, milking cows, feeding chickens and gathering the eggs. Mom would leave us, to finish up, while she started supper. So on our first night of “ batching it” Daddy sent me to the house early with instructions to fix supper. Lamb meat being a staple of our diet we planned to eat lamb chops for dinner. I quickly washed up, set the table, peeled potatoes, got frying pans out of the cupboard and had the chops ready to fry when Daddy got to the house. I remember our conversation going something like this.

  “Sister, I don’t smell anything cooking, what have you been doing?” 

 “I have everything ready to cook, but Daddy, I’ve never fried lamb chops or potatoes or made gravy.”  

 “Well little girl, it’s about time you learned.”  Daddy washed up and joined me in the kitchen. 

“Stand by the stove, next to me, so you can watch what I’m doing.”  I loved standing close to Daddy, his familiar smell of cigarettes and farm animals, not offensive to me, but comforting, as I felt safe near him. He was gentle and kind and wasn’t afraid to show affection. He loved all of us girls unconditionally and taught each of us, how to ride a horse, milk a cow, and drive a tractor. Always with a soft voice never yelling at us, he explained, then let us try our hand, then explained again, until he was satisfied that we had learned the lesson.

He put bacon drippings in the fry pans and turned up the heat. He sliced potatoes, with lightning speed, his hand gripping the knife. The potatoes sliced and the grease sizzling, he handed me the bowl of potatoes and said,  “ Now very carefully, so you don’t burn yourself, slide the potatoes into the hot grease.”  I did as I was told, then watched the potatoes cook, while Daddy floured the chops and placed them one by one into the hot grease in the other frying pan. They browned quickly, on one side, and Daddy picked up the fork to turn them. 

“Wait,” I said, “Let me turn them, I need the practice.”   Handing me the fork, he watched as I turned the chops. 

 “That’s my girl, perfect.”  He said. “Now turn the heat to low and cover the chops and let them cook.”  Then with his calloused hand on mine holding the spatula, together we turned the crispy brown potatoes to the other side. Fragrant smells filled the kitchen; I couldn’t believe that I was really learning to cook. But with his help I learned quickly and was sure I could do it myself the next time. “Della, put the chops on a platter and into the warming oven and I will show you how to make gravy.”  He poured out some of the grease, scraped the browned bits off the bottom and edges of the fry pan. “Okay, sprinkle flour into the grease with one hand while stirring with the other. When the flour and grease start to thicken, add milk and keep stirring, adding more milk until you have gravy.”  I did as told and soon we had a fry pan full of delicious milk gravy to cover biscuits, warming in the oven. As we dished up our plates and started to the table to eat, Daddy’s blue eyes twinkled as he said, “Tomorrow night I expect lamb chops cooking when I come in from the barn.” 

 “I’ll bet I can do that,” I said, as he hugged me tightly.