Danny for President

We went to a very small Catholic school. I had 6 people in my grade. My best friend was the only other girl in my grade, Kristin. There were 9 grades in the school, K thru 8. After 8th grade you either went to Owattona or Blooming Prairie. 9 grades with an average of 6 people meant around 54 people.

Each year Lytomysl, the school we went to, held an election for president. The eighth graders were the only ones that got to run for election. Danny, my older brother, decided to run for president his eighth grade year.

His platform was that he was going to switch the water in the drinking fountain to soda. Not suprisingly he had the election in the bag. I quizzed my whole grade and they all promised to vote for my brother.

The Sunday before election Monday I was all dressed up to go to town with my mom. She was going grocery shopping at Jack and Jill's. I had two kinds of clothes when I was little-my farm clothes and my leaving the farm clothes, aka my town clothes. For grocery shopping I put on my town clothes. I walked outside being really careful not to walk in any goose poop or let the dogs touch my clothes.

Danny came up behind me right before I was ready to leave and threw me in our kiddie pool. My town clothes were ruined. I started to cry. I ran inside to change into my farm clothes and I had to rush to town wearing those. I was so embarrassed.

The morning of the election I went to school and told Kristin what had happened. She was just as shocked as I was. We made a pact to not vote for Danny in the election. The election came and went. Danny was announced the winner.

That night at dinner Danny told my parents the results. "I won the election, everyone in the school voted for me, except for three people, the guy running against me, Molly and her best friend Kristin."

I could not believe someone had told him. I was embarrassed that he found out, but still mad about my town clothes. Throw me in the pool all you want, just check what clothes I have on.

Journal Entry about the Pony Incident

By Molly

This is my journal article from January 12, 1990. I wrote this in my journal after Mom broke her arm riding one of the new ponies. It says, "Last Monday my mom got on are horse and the horse reed (*reared) up and then it fell back on the left side of her then the horse bibe (*died) and my moms rom (*arm) got drockyd (*broke.)"

My Little Ponies

By Mary

Until I was about ten or so, we always had anywhere from four to six draft horses on the farm, percherons. They were big. We used them for farming. I was able to help harness them as young as four. Dad would have me drive them as we picked up hay or spread manure on the fields. Now and then we would get on their backs and ride them around the pasture, but the rides were short. These were not horses you took for long rides. I always wanted my own horse to ride. We had a horse named Buster for a couple of years, but we were warned to not ride him. He would throw us if he did. My cousin, Annie did ride him once; she was thrown, he went away soon after that.

Dad taking a group for a hay ride with the team of draft horse.
I was always asking Mom for a riding horse. When I was thirteen, the cattle man showed up one day. He bought several cows from us. The cows were to be sold right away. He had two horses in his trailer that weren’t going to be sold right away so he left the horses with us and took the cows.

The horses he left were riding horses, I don’t know what type, but they looked like quarter horses. I wanted to ride them so bad. I would go to the pasture and talk to them. One was red and other white. The white one ignored me, but the red would come up to me. I found an old bridle in the barn and I got it on him. He was tall and I couldn’t get on him bareback in the pasture. We had an old couch sitting in the yard so I brought him up to the yard. I got on one end of the couch and was able to take a run down the end of the couch and leap on his back at the last second.

He was wonderful to ride. I would ride him everyday. He would go really fast. Sometimes he got a little squirrelly, and I got scared but we always managed to make it back to the yard. I wanted him to be mine so bad, I wanted Mom to buy him. I would hurry home from school everyday to ride him. The last time I rode him Bridget and my cousin Erin wanted to ride him too. The three of us got on and it was going fine until I decided he should canter. We all fell off and landed under him. He just stopped and looked at us. We couldn’t get back on him because we weren’t in the yard by the couch anymore so we all walked him up to the yard and decided that was enough for one day and put him away. The next day when I came home from school he was gone. Mom said the cattleman wanted too much for him and that we couldn’t afford him. I was so sad. My time having a horse I could ride had come to end.

Mom knew I was sad. The neighbor, Shirley, said we could have their two ponies for cheap. I was fourteen at the time, too big for these little ponies, but they were horses. I went over to Shirley’s with Mom to see the ponies. Mom thought I should try to ride one before we took them home. Shirley said Red needed a lot of work but Bucky wasn’t so bad. Bucky? Seemed like an ominous name for a horse. I gingerly boarded Bucky as he skidded around and tried to prevent me. My feet hung just inches off the ground. We started at a slow walk which quickly turned into a full on run for the buildings; Bucky whipped around right before we hit the barn, bucking as he did and heading off in the other direction without me. I landed on a pile of sharp gravel rocks. I was wearing shorts and my legs were all cut and scraped up.

I imagine the conversation between Mom and Shirley went something like this:

Shirley, “That girl shouldn’t have been wearing shorts.”

Mom, “I know I told her that before we came over, she never listens.”

Shirley, “They’ve never done that to me. You can’t be afraid, if you are they’ll sense it, that’s why he took off.”

Mom, “It’s okay, I’ll just have to break them in. We’ll take them.”

A couple of days later Shirley walked both ponies over to our farm. They were put into the front pasture by the house. A couple of weeks after the cuts in my legs heeled, I got up the courage to ride again. This time I decided to give Red a go. It had to go better. These were my horses. I was determined to ride them. I hopped on Red’s back, and he promptly took off as fast he could down the driveway, rolled over a barb wire fence. (Yes, rolled, he was too small to jump, and he knew it). I ended up tangled in the barb wire as he rolled over me. That was it for me. I was done with both of the ponies. I caught Red and put him back in the pen but not before giving him a stealth look. Sure we horses now, two that were trying to kill me; I wasn’t so keen on these new horses.

No one else attempted to ride them that fall. Mom would say, “They’re fine, they just need to be broken,” but she didn’t attempt to ride them until the winter when our whole yard was a sheet of ice. It was so icy that I could strap on skates and ice skate around the entire yard.

Danny, Bridget, and I came home from school one winter day. The house was dark. Mom was leaning against the wood stove in the kitchen cradling her arm. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. Neither of them said anything at first, and then my mom quietly said, “We have to tell you something. I tried to ride Bucky today, to break him. I got on him; he reared up right away, slipped on the ice, and fell on his neck on top of me. He died right away, and I think my arm is broken.”

Silence.

And then was all started laughing, “Yeah, right, you killed, the horse.”

“I’m serious, look out the kitchen window.”

We did. There lay Bucky, not moving. We all turned back around and looked back at Mom.

“We need to go the hospital to get my arm checked out.”

Stunned, nothing. “Okay.”

She came back hours later, her arm in a caste. The rendering man came to get Bucky a week later. No one ever rode Red again. We ended up selling him a couple of years later. I never did get a horse again.

Why Watching Jaws is Uncomfortable

By Bridget

When I was very little, hay for the hay barn was gathered loose. It wasn't packed into rectangular bales or big round bales. It was thrown into a wagon by pitchforks. The wagon had high sides all around to keep the hay in and this was pulled by the horses. One person had to drive the horses while one or more people would walk alongside, with pitchforks, tossing the dried and mown hay into the wagon. The hay would then get transferred to the hayloft by a clawlike contraption that would lower from a pulley at the top of the barn. This pulley was powered down below by a conveyor belt attached to the horses. The horses would pull on the belt, walking away from the barn, the claw would be lifted into the barn, then someone would pull the claw into the hayloft through the hayloft door. The hay would be released, then the horses would back up, lowering the claw down to the hay wagon again. The person in the hayloft would disperse the hay around the hayloft while the person down below would get the claw ready for another load. I loved the loose hay as it was perfect to slide down in the winter while bundled up in a snowsuit. We also had a rope string in the hayloft. We could climb onto a small ledge and swing from the rope into the mounds of hay.

Waiting for baled hay to come through the large barn doors. Pictured (I think) John Grobner, Danny, Mary Beth, and Uncle Steve.
One summer evening, right before dusk, my parents and Uncle Tim went out to gather hay. I didn't go with them at first. Maybe because it wasn't fun until the hay had started to pile up, and you could sit on top of it all or maybe because by staying behind I was able to watch Jaws on TV. After watching Jaws for awhile with my feet tucked underneath me so they wouldn't be bit off by some shark on the floor, I ran barefoot out to the field where they were gathering hay.

I was always barefoot, especially when I was running through a field of cut grass as some man had once told me that nothing was harder to run on than freshly cut grass. Personally, I felt that it was harder to run through the field once the cut grass had time to dry up and harden; regardless, I wanted to have tough soles.

I met the wagon and happily climbed up the sideboards to the top of the hay. Soon the wagon was full of hay, and Dad was driving the horses back to the barn. The ride back was the best part as the horses were allowed to trot and on top of the hay I was gently rocked by the creaking wagon.

Dad parked the wagon beside the barn, and we all started to get off the top of the hay. There was a pile of hay in between the wagon and the barn where I decided to jump. I jumped and landed on the tine of a pitchfork. I started screaming and screaming for someone to help me, and Uncle Tim came first and lifted me off. I was carried into the house and had my foot rinsed in the sink in the bathroom. I'm not sure how deep the tine had gone, but I must have jumped onto a pitchfork that was lying on the ground tine-up as it didn't go all the way through my foot.

Mom applied a scalding mixture of a slice of bread dunked in boiling milk. This was apparently her cure-all at the time as years later both Danny and Mary remember having this administered to them as well around the same time period. I believe the mixture was supposed to draw out impurities so we would not get infected, which I guess worked, but I mainly remember getting burnt by it.

After the mixture was taken off, my foot was wrapped up and I stayed off it for awhile. A few days later, I hopped on my good foot outside to the kiddy pool. Mom had told me it would feel good on my foot if I walked around in there. Our roving band of geese enjoyed the kiddy pool as much as we did, and they were always clouding it up with their poop, this time being no exception. I jumped right in anyways, and it did feel really nice to swish my foot around and even walk on it. My foot never got infected, and I never contracted tetanus, even though none of us had any of our shots as children. However, I can't watch Jaws without thinking of the pitchfork in my foot and I get sharp pains shooting up into my foot.

I got Gum.... Everywhere

By Bridget

Mary was right that when we were quite young, or at least when I was quite young, we were not allowed sugar or candy or anything good. Sometimes there would be carob, which just isn't the same, as say chocolate. I still hate carob, and I know this because Theresa eats it, and I keep tasting to see if I've changed my mind about it. I'll like it at first, but then I get hit by that carob aftertaste and know I'll never like it. Slowly my parents began to bring chocolate into the house, first with bags of semi-sweet chocolate chips which I would sneak when Mom had fallen asleep laying Theresa and Molly down for their naps. And, unfortunately, I was allowed to have gum every once in awhile.

On one such occasion, we were in Owatonna at the mall. I had a penny and was allowed to get a gumball out of the machine. This was very exciting and I wanted it to last, so I didn't take it out of my mouth when I went to bed. I awoke early in the morning and could not raise my arm. I could raise my elbow, but my armpit was sealed shut. I realized it was the gum and knew I was going to get into trouble. I slowly, scared out of my mind, went downstairs to my parents' bedroom. I stood by their bed and very timidly told them that my arm was stuck, and I couldn't lift it. Mom barely woke up and told me to go back to bed; she said she would deal with it later. So I went back to bed and waited until my parents got up. When I finally heard the get up, I went downstairs again and told them again that my arm was stuck to my armpit by gum. Mom felt bad as she had not realized what I was saying earlier, which is probably why I didn't get yelled at. At first my parents just tried to pry my arm open with strength, but that didn't work. The little gumball had a formidable force. So then they attacked me; one of them held me down while the other one tried to shove an ice cube into my armpit to freeze the gum and make it easier to remove. This was horrible and I cried and flailed and tried to get away until they stopped. They finally stopped and gave up for the day. Seriously. I walked around, unable to lift my arm, until that evening when Dad finally thought to use gasoline on it. This worked superbly, was much less traumatic for me, and finally the gum was removed.

This incident did not teach me a lesson, or perhaps, because I got gum so infrequently, I still would fall asleep with gum in my mouth. It never got into my armpit again, but would often get into my hair. I eventually learned to leave it on my bedpost, so I could have a nice hard, tasteless wad of gum as soon as I woke up.

Uncle Tim holding Molly, Bridget, and Theresa around the time of the gum incident. All the small children is probably the reason Mom needed all the sleep.

Best and Worst Birthday Ever

By Molly

My twelfth birthday was set to be the best birthday of my whole life. I had so many fun things planned. As children, we were only able to have a birthday party every three years, this was not a party year for me but I had more important things going on. I was really unhappy at the small Catholic school I was going to. After weeks and weeks of begging my mom to let me switch schools and go to the public elementary school she finally agreed to let me transfer.

I was set to change schools on October 14th, my birthday. It was to be the last day at Litomysl for me. The first thing I had planned was that I was going to serve mass. The great part about serving mass was being able to miss the first class of the day due to setting up for the mass. That morning I served with Jacob. I was not going to tell anyone about the school switch until later, but I had a crush on Jacob, so on the walk over to the church I told him. He was really surprised, and I would like to think a little heartbroken.

Mary and Molly reading petitions in church.

After church, I decided, I would pass out my birthday treats that Mom had made for my class. Mom and I had made my favorite cookies to pass out. They were sugar cookies with jam pressed between them and dipped in chocolate. After handing out treats, I would be given the honor of picking the activity for gym. I had contemplated all week but decided to play goose and fox. It was going to be awesome.

The mass was great. I remembered every cue. Midway through the mass I saw Mom walk in. She was just on time with my treats. I walked back to class with my classmates, and the news about my leaving was spreading like wildfire. Everyone was very surprised, but they knew it was what I wanted.

Mom came into my class a short while later and asked me to come with her. We went into the school library. "This is it!" I thought. But no, I was wrong, she told me that she had spoken with the priest and told him I was leaving. She said the priest had recommended that I stay. They had talked for awhile and somehow he was able to convince her to leave me in the school.

I was shocked. I started to cry and scream. I could not fathom how she could change her mind. While I sat and wailed with my head on the table the nun who lived above the school came down to use the laundry room attached to the library. That nosy little sister came in to see what was going on. Mom told her what I was upset about. Sister Monique sat down with me and tried to comfort me. She told me that sometimes life doesn't turn out how we want but things do get better. She then invited me up to her apartment, or maybe because she is a nun it was an abbey; I'm not sure. She made me some tea and started to show me pictures of her many mission trips. She had traveled to a lot of cool places and helped a lot of needy people, but I really didn't care. I will admit that she made me feel a little better, but I didn't let her know. I was civil but stubborn. I would not give in. I vowed to remain upset as long as I could.

Eventually Mom took me home. We had spent all day with Sister Monique because I refused to go back to class. When we got home, I sat myself at the kitchen table and started to cry. I wanted to cry until my parents changed their mind. Dad brought me a little puppy figurine, but I barely acknowledged it, even though I really did love it. He also brought me home some flowers, I knew he had taken them off of someone's grave so it was easy to ignore those.

I cried at the table all that night and all the next day. I did eventually go back to Litomysl, but I was embarrassed and pissed. I was completely horrible to the all the teachers. I tried everything to get my parents to switch me. Turns out, all I had to do was teach a boy in my class to belly dance. I switched schools on Valentine's Day that same school year.

Baseball

By Molly

Dad loves baseball. On summer nights he would open all the doors on his truck and turn the radio on to the Twins game. He taught my brother Danny how to pitch. Danny would throw pitch after pitch at our barn. All the windows on the barn were broken at one time or another from Danny learning to pitch.

We used to all play baseball together. We used the shell of a snapping turtle as second base. Home base was a rock imbedded in the ground and if a ball flew over the pine trees it was a home run.

In grade school Mary was pitcher and Bridget was her catcher. This inspired me to go out for softball when I was in seventh grade. I had never played on a team other than the Donnelly team, but I knew the position I wanted to play, catcher. After trying to catch for my brother who through line drives at my head, I thought I would be good at it. I showed up to the first practice of the year and told the coach I was a catcher. I was new to the school so he believed me.

He took the catchers aside and said he was going to throw us some pitches. I was second up. He wound up, threw the pitch and hit me straight in the nose. My nose started to bleed all over. I spent the rest of the first practice sitting in the corner with ice on my face.

That year we had a girl who was a really good catcher playing on our team. She started every game, and I would warm up the other pitchers. It went really well until she hurt her knee. Then the coach made me play for three games. I would crouch into position and whisper, "Please hit the ball, please hit the ball." If it was hit, I didn't have to catch it. During one of these games, my chemistry teacher was the ump. He crouched behind me and called out strike or ball. At one point he heard me whispering and started to laugh. After about the 50th missed catch he started to help me out. He would stop the ball with his foot or slyly block the pitch himself. I was so grateful.

Meat

By Theresa

When I was 7 I decided to become a vegetarian. When people ask me why I decided to become a vegetarian at such a young age, images of raw meat carcasses, random animal parts, and animals rolling around in feces are conjured in my mind, and I wonder why they haven't become one. There were many factors that added up to ensure my vegetarianism. The first one I can remember were the days of chicken butchering. I will admit that in the beginning I enthusiastically participated in the affair-I mean how could I miss out, I was the gizzard cleaner. It was exciting because it was a chore that we were all together for since there was a job for each of us. But after slicing open so many brown slimy gizzards and scraping the rocks off the tough inner skin, and watching mom pull out foot after foot of brown intestines, and smelling the strong sickening odor of the innards of the chickens, the hunger in me began to die. It also didn't help that all the feathers were not always plucked fully off and when I thought of this as mom plopped a freshly thawed out chicken in to a pot to begin soup, I felt a knot grow in my stomach.

Watching them butcher a cow was equally as bad but in its own rite. The smells and sounds were only amplified with the larger beast. Cows were not something I could help butcher, but I do remember watching the process, somewhat in horror. I couldn't watch the process too long as the smell was too overwhelming and the sound of the knife cutting through the flesh of the cow sent shivers through my body. Once when I was older my mom had some Native American friends butcher a bull in our backyard. Before the bull was even finished being butchered they had lit the grill and started barbecuing the meat. I was so glad I was a vegetarian as they offered me a hot piece of testicle. It was beyond me how anyone could have an appetite for meat after witnessing that.

But the worst was the day I came home from school on a cold, rainy day. It was sometime in the late fall and Danny had been deer hunting that season. By this time I was well into my days as a vegetarian and absolutely loathed deer hunting season, so much so that I would make signs and write stories condemning the recreation. I hated being outside on those fall days listening to the piercing sound of a shot gun in the distance. And whenever I saw deer I would wish them safety through that dark season. I hated when Danny was successful in his hunt and I was shamed by the bounty he would proudly hang from a tree in our front yard. I looked at the dead deer with scorn and pity, I was angry that it hadn't out smarted my brother. This particular year was especially depressing as I believe we had 2 dead deer on our hands. I can't remember the details, but for some reason my parents had one of the deer butchered at home, instead of having a professional do it. It would have been tolerable if this butchering was that simple, but by some bad decision (due to the cold, wet weather) my parents and my uncle and his wife decided to do the butchering on our kitchen table. When I walked into the house that afternoon I stared in shock at the overwhelming scene. It is one thing to see a beautiful deer struck down and hung in your tree, it is another thing entirely to see that wild animal flung across the entire length of your kitchen table. It was too much for me to handle, I couldn't stick around and watch how it turned out. It looked like a horrible mess to me and I needed to escape it. I quickly got the low-down and bolted to my room shutting the door behind me. Luckily Molly was right there with me so I could find some solace in knowing that she too found the whole scene disgusting and frightening. We hid upstairs the entire night, trying to block out what was happening down in the kitchen. This became difficult once they began cooking the meat for dinner. The smell of the venison was so strong and sickening. The smoke drifted in to our room from the hole in our floor and burnt my eyes. We grabbed towels and clothing to block the hole and prevent the smell from coming up and we opened our windows to bring fresh air in. Timmy, who was still very young, had come upstairs to get away as well, and I remember crying with him. I yelled to my parents that it was so horrible and I couldn't believe what they were doing. I was so happy when it was over, and all the evidence was gone, although it took awhile for me to eat at our kitchen table.

Uncle Steve and Uncle Tim butchering a cow.

Gum, Candy

By Mary

Candy. I was never allowed to have candy when I was little. My parents met working in a macrobiotic restaurant which I believe instilled in them a need to only serve us rice and miso soup, they weren't completely successful with that, but they did manage to cut out sweets. They also had their own restaurant at two different times, and we were always told that Dad taught Mom how to cook.

I only remember Dad cooking for us once. Mom went somewhere and he was tasked with cooking us corn and potato chowder. I loved it when my mom cooked this for us and was quite excited to have Dad cooking it for us as I was sure he would do a better job than my mom. He had to. He had taught her to cook after all. It took him hours and hours to cook the chowder, and when he put it at the table in front of us it was gray and hard and lumpy. It looked like the wall paper paste my mom would mix up to hang up wall paper – her paste was homemade and never quite kept the paper on. I scooped up some chowder because it was my only choice for nourishment. The wall paper paste tasted better than the soup, and I knew as I was frequently sampling the paste. I had a penchant for the taste of paste and glue. Nothing I liked better than a good sip of glue—I wasn’t phased by the threats that it was made from horses’ hoofs, sounded organic to me.

Even better than glue was gum. We were allowed to go trick or treating but not eat the candy. I never knew where it would go, but it would disappear. Bridget had a little table and chairs that were given to her for Christmas from Grandma. One of the legs was broken off the table, either because we were sitting on it or Dad had never properly put it together. We were sad it was broken and got my dad to fix it for us. Instead of reaching for a screwdriver and screw, he reached on top of the fridge and pulled out our Halloween candy. He gave me a piece of gum from it told me to chew it. I was upset that that was where our candy was but more excited than anything that I got a piece of gum. When it was soft in my mouth, Dad asked for it, I sneakily only gave him half of it. He used the chewed up gum I gave him to stick the leg back on the table (which looking back at it now boggles my mind, my dad worked in a chair factory for awhile, making chairs, he had to know a different way to get the leg to stick on the table other than gum, unless that’s what they did in his chair factory, my dad is small—very small, barely 5 feet and weighs 90 pounds-- maybe it was an elf chair factory? I totally can see elves fixing chairs that way).

After the table was fixed, I got on the bus to go kindergarten, and I was absolutely thrilled to have a tiny bit of gum in mouth. The only way I usually got gum was digging under the bus seats. It was incredible; there was a plethora of chewed gum stuck to the undersides of the bus seats. I didn’t understand how one could give up their gum so easily and abandon it on the bus, but it gave me so many to choose from, did I want pink bubble gum? White mint gum? I could have any kind I wanted; it was there for my taking. But I had to be stealth, I knew not everyone was as excited as I was to chew the gum on the under sides of the seats. I was one of the last kids dropped off on the bus route. The seats with the most, best gum were at the back of the bus. As more kids where dropped off, I would make my way to the back of the bus, where the good gum seats were. I would wait for the perfect opportunity, when no one was sitting across from me and anyone sitting behind or in front of me were distracted. I would feel around for the perfect piece and grab it and throw in my mouth when the opportunity struck. Success. I was so happy to be chewing gum.

The only other time I got fresh, non ABC gum, we were out as a family at Bridgeman’s Ice Cream. Right next to our booth was a dispenser with gum packages that you could buy for $0.25. Gum, all I could think or see the whole meal was gum, gum, gum. I had to have that gum. I didn’t know how I was going to get it, but it would be mine. I didn’t have $0.25 but I would get the gum. When we were getting up to leave, I waited to leave last from the booth and quickly snuck a pack into my pocket when no one was looking. In the parking lot getting in the car, I was thrilled, thrilled that I had the gum, but scared, now what. What happen if Mom found out? How was I going to chew it? I had to chew it. It had to go in my mouth, I kept fondling it in my pocket, gum, gum, gum.

We stopped at the grocery store next. I was obsessed, there was more gum at the store, I needed more gum. How was I going to get more gum? I saw gum in the gum ball machines. It had to be mine. My mom was distracted. I knew there was change in her pocket. I snuck my hand in her pocket and found a quarter when she wasn’t looking. She was paying for the groceries, and I snuck to the candy machine and got a huge round ball of gum. It went in my pocket with the other gum. Gum! I was so excited. This gum needed to get in my mouth. I thought about it the whole half hour ride home. It was dark when we got home, the groceries were brought in, everyone was getting ready for bed. Perfect chance for me to chew my gum. I put the big blue ball of gum in mouth. I tried to bite down; it wouldn’t break. There was blue all over my mouth and lips and my mouth was filled with this huge… jawbreaker, I couldn’t get it to get smaller I sucked as hard and as fast as I could. My mom found me. “What do you have! Where did you get that?” (The blue all over my face must have given it away.) I started crying. I couldn’t tell her. She yelled at me more and brought me into the bathroom and made me spit my precious gum (umm.. jawbreaker) into the toilet. My precious gum that I had fought so hard to get. She made me flush the toilet; I cried more. She didn’t know about the gum in my coat pocket though, the packet. I couldn’t eat it now, I knew I would get in trouble, I went to catholic school, I knew I was going to hell for stealing. I threw the gum away at my first chance and confessed to the stealing at my next confession. The Hail Mary’s never took away my stealing guilt.

Danny, Mary, and Bridget hyped up on life, not sugar.

An Outsider’s Perspective of Sheila Donnelly

Becky Spinler wrote the following blog. Becky grew up on a farm about 5 miles away from us. We went to Catholic school together and she was my best friend (if you're keeping tracking, my doll was not named after her, it came with the name Becky, but it was very fitting.) Becky's post reminds me how easy it is to internalize things and make up what everyone is thinking about you. I assumed everyone knew we were poor; a couple of times kids in school brought it up to me, and it made me feel very insecure and mad. I thought everyone knew-- we were on food stamps, we had junker cars, my parents had to clean the Catholic we went to pay for our tuition-- but from Becky's post it's clear not everyone saw it that way.

Additionally, I always thought Becky's mom was so much fun. She was always laughing, she made great meals, was kind and loving, and she always had a clean car and house which made me jealous. I know she is terribly missed.

Thank you, Becky, for these fun memories and for giving me another perspective. - Mary

Mary & Becky participating in a read-a-thon at Litomysl.
By Rebekah Spinler

I always thought of Sheila as the “cool” mom. She seemed young, liked to joke and goof around, and she was always screaming funny things at the top of her lungs. To show respect, we were technically supposed to call her “Mrs. Donnelly”. She preferred “Sheila”, and I secretly believed this was because she never wanted to grow old. I always admired her dark hair and the way she would purse her lips together. I also liked it when she would wear dark pink lipstick. She didn’t put it on all that often, so you knew it was a special occasion when she did.

Going to a private Catholic school, we depended on our moms to drive us to our volleyball, cheerleading or softball games. Sheila drove us quite often. She had a yellow car with a burgundy vinyl top. I do not remember the make or model. It always had a loud muffler. I always found myself quite content by the loud muffler, and Sheila screaming at the top of her lungs. She would say things like, “Help! I can’t stop!” as if the car had no brakes just to mess with us. We laughed! One time, on our way to a softball game, Sheila pulled out too far at an intersection in Owatonna and missed the green light waiting for traffic to pass. She backed up to behind the white line at the light to wait for the next light. She never put the car back into drive. She stepped on it hard at the light, and we went screeching backwards, screaming as we nearly missed the truck behind us. We were all highly amused. She acted like that was supposed to happen! There was never a dull moment with Sheila!

My mom always liked Sheila. I knew that Sheila entertained my mom as well with her wild ways. She always made my mom laugh! They spent time together doing various activities at the church and school including baking biscuits and hauling us bratty kids around. I was always jealous that Sheila was so creative and made their Halloween costumes as well as the costumes for the Christmas plays. They were always unique. My Mom just bought mine at Wal-Mart. As I read Mary’s blog about being embarrassed by the homemade costumes, it’s shocking to think how we thought so differently!

Sheila attempted to be our cheerleading coach at the Catholic school. I say “attempted” because she didn’t really have much to work with. Some of us girls were rolly-polly (aka fat) and the rest just didn’t have the cheerleader knack. We were farm kids, but our boy’s basketball team needed cheerleaders! After school, we would have cheerleading practice. Practices didn’t happen to often- just often enough for us girls to learn the jigs and flail our arms in the air. We practiced on the red and white mats in the basement of the church. I knew I could never be as good of a cheerleader as Sheila. She was naturally a loud person and was flexible! She could kick, jump and flip like an Olympic medalist. I remember yelling “Do it again!” over and over to her flips and cartwheels. Sheila was one of the best entertainers I can remember as a kid.

The cheerleading squad Sheila (picture upper left) coached that Becky (top second from the right) and Mary (bottom second from the right) were on.
As I read the Donnelly sister’s blog, the girls have mentioned several times that the family was “poor”. As a kid, I really had no idea. I was clueless the Donnelly family did not have a lot of money. As a kid, that was not important. They had almost every farm animal possible and a big yard to play in. I loved going to their house to see the big pen of sheep and to play with the dog and cats. I will never forget the dog named, Needle-Nose. He had a long pointy nose, hence his name, and his fur was always full of cockle-burrs from roaming through the fields. To the west, they had a long back driveway. I remember watching their dad bale hay the old-fashioned way while walking down that back driveway. To the east, they had a large pasture with big oak trees that housed their cattle and horses. I despised the chickens; I always thought they were going to peck at me. There was always some place to hide at the Donnelly farm. Truly, their mom was so “cool” that I just liked being around her and was always excited for an opportunity to venture to their farm.

Tom (Dad) and Uncle Tim baling hay the old-fashioned way.
In 1994, Sheila came to my family’s farm and wrote a story about my family. The article was about living and working together as a family on the farm. She took pictures of my sisters and me milking cows and pitching manure. It was published in the Austin Daily Herald. One of my girlfriends saved the article and recently gave it to me. It made my heart pitter patter at childhood memories. I had forgotten all about that article, and without the reminder, may have tucked away some of those memories forever.

Thanks, Mrs. Donnelly, for the laughs, memories, and being a cool mom.

Sheila (Mom) telling a story.

Theresa is Mine

By Bridget

A few weeks before Theresa was born, Mary and I were fighting over something. I don't remember what we were fighting over, but Mary won. I was crying and to get me to stop, Mom said that the baby she was pregnant with would be mine. She said I could be the baby's second mom, and I could help care for him or her. I now realize that her saying that really didn't mean anything, but to my 5 year old self, I was sure I'd gotten the better deal. So from then until Theresa was born, I bragged about how the baby was going to be mine.

The day after Christmas, early in the morning, Danny and Mary woke me up to say our mom was in labor. I didn't want to get up as it was still dark and the bed was so warm, but my excitement to see my baby won out. Downstairs, we snuggled up together on the couch in the other room from where Theresa was being born.

We could watch from the other room, but I could only see the women who were there to help our mom. She had two of her friends and the midwife who had delivered Molly and would later deliver Timmy. It seemed to take a long time, but then I was called into the room.

They told me I could cut the umbilical cord. I was a bit scared, but my mom's friend Caron smiled at me and I felt better. The scissors were placed in my hands and guided to the cord. I squeezed with all my 5 year old might, but couldn't cut all the way through. I felt so disappointed when the midwife had to help me.

Theresa was very thin when she was born. There was something that was wrong and required a trip to the hospital. This worried me immensely. It was so cold and she seemed so fragile, too fragile to leave the house. My parents also had to say that she had accidentally been born at home. I was scared the whole time they were gone. Scared that she wouldn't be well and scared they would take her away because she'd been born at home. I was so relieved when they returned with my baby.

Bridget, Mom & baby Theresa
Theresa was a screamer. She screamed loudly and often. As expected, this would often frustrate my mom. Having my own child, I now completely understand how hard babies are, and I don't even have four older children also needing my attention. When Theresa was a baby, I did not understand this. So when Theresa had screamed and cried forever and our mom would exclaim that if she didn't stop, she'd throw her across the room, I really thought she'd do it. As she was mine and I was responsible for her, I had to protect her. So I told myself I'd have to catch Theresa. I stayed close by, expecting at any moment to have to run and save her.

Of course it never happened and eventually Theresa stopped screaming. Throughout our childhood, I always felt a bond to Theresa, as I still considered her mine. I was especially pleased when she actually liked my clothing style, although she has much improved upon it. I'm sure our mom's gift of Theresa to me was a spur of the moment, get-me-to-stop-crying decision, but I've always been incredibly happy to be her "second" Mom.


Bridget & Theresa Belly Dancing

Cheap Beer & Belly Dancing

By Molly

I got grounded a lot when I was younger. One day I told Mom I was going shopping in Rochester with my friend Tara and her family. Tara told her mom the same thing. We actually spent the day at Tara's boyfriend's house drinking Dr. Mcgillicuddy's and making out with our boyfriends. Two hours after the time I told Mom I would be home, she called Tara's house and talked to her mom. Silly moms figured out neither of us were in Rochester with the other's family. I had no idea when I pulled into our driveway that Mom had caught on. She stopped my boyfriend and I halfway up the driveway. She stood in front of the truck he was driving. Then she pulled me out of the truck and started screaming at me. She dragged me into the house. She didn't even let me kiss my boyfriend goodbye.

She grounded me, but my groundings never stuck. I had three older siblings who had softened my mom up for me. If I had been the oldest, I know I would have never gotten away with all the things I did.

One night when I was 17 my parents spent the evening at their friends' house in Austin. Austin is a good 45 minute drive, so I felt safe they would be gone a few hours. I invited my new boyfriend and his friends over to have some beers and hang out.

After about an hour, we saw headlights coming up the driveway. It was too late to run and hide, so we all just sat at the kitchen table hoping for the best. Mom came in and said, "What is going on here?" Prime example of growing soft, if it had been Danny or Mary and their friends she would have kicked in their car windows and slashed their tires.

I was scared, but she just circled the table picking up beer cans. "Oh," she said, holding a can of Bud Light, "How can you drink such cheap beer? This will make you so sick."

We all laughed uncomfortably. She then sat at the table. "So, Mom, what were you and Dad up to tonight?" I asked trying to ease the mood.

"I was with my friends, we learned a new number at Belly Dance Class" she answered. One of the boys, trying to be nice, said "That is cool."

Mom got a big smile on her face and said, "Really? Ok, let me show you." She walked over to the CD player, which was on the microwave that we had never plugged in but made a really good table, and put in her new dance CD.

She started to do a solo belly dance in the kitchen for my boyfriend and his four friends. Mom would dance in front of each boy for a few moments smiling and undulating. It was worse than having to explain slashed tires. When she was done, all the guys complimented her through blushed smiles. They had a new appreciation of the ancient art of the belly dance.

Mom in her belly dancing outfit

I was so embarrassed, but for her next act she pulled frozen steaks out of the freezer and cooked them up for my tipsy friends. It was beyond embarrassing for me but a nice night for a 17 year old boy: a dance from a lady, some beers, and a good steak.

No Longer the Baby

By Theresa

When I was younger, I was the baby of the family for 8 wonderful years. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed being the baby of the family until this position was usurped. I will never forget the day I found out Mom was pregnant with Timmy. Molly, Mom, Dad and I were all having dinner, homemade pizza. Bridget was there as well, but she wasn't eating with us as she was on the phone and leaning against the wood stove. She already knew the big news, but wanted to watch it unfold as Molly and I found out, and she was relaying the whole thing to her friend on the other end of the phone.

I was pretty excited about the meal because it wasn't something we ate often. Soon after we began eating, Mom said that she had something she had to tell us, and she sounded pretty serious. I can't remember if Mom or Dad said it, but I remember the news felt like a punch to the stomach. There was shock and then there were tears that didn't stop. My mouth was filled with food, but my throat wouldn't work to swallow. I dropped my head to my plate, spit out my food, and sobbed, "WHY! Why? Why..." to my parents, maybe there was some hows and whens in there too. To make matters worse, Molly was so excited and happy. She had no sympathy, probably because I was the one who took her position as baby. She had always loved telling me the story about how shortly after I was born, she couldn't take anymore of my screaming so she told Mom to "throw that baby out in the snow." I think she was happy to see my tears.

Bridget was talking quietly to her friend with a horrified look on her face as she watched me cry, she was telling her friend everything that was happening. I couldn't believe that everyone wasn't reacting the same way I was. Mom told me to come to her and she comforted me as I cried the rest of my tears. I remember feeling some bitterness towards her since she was the reason for my agony. Once the shock wore off, the news wasn't so horrible but I still wanted to be the baby of the family. The next day at school all the teachers teased me about what had happened; Molly had relied the story. They said things like, "Ohhh, are you sad you're not going to be the baby anymore? Hehehe." I didn't find any humor in their jokes, and I was angry at Molly for telling them how I reacted.

As time passed, I became more used to the idea, but I still didn't find it ideal. It was during this same period that I thought the world of Bridget. I wanted to be just like her, I got jealous when Molly spent time with her and I wasn't there, and I hated when Bridget wasn't around. About five months after I had found out about the pregnancy, Bridget and I and Mary were riding our bikes around the block. We were talking about the upcoming baby and Bridget made the simple statement that she was excited about its arrival, Mary said she was too. I had no idea they felt this way and I asked Bridget, "Really?" When I looked at her and saw that she was serious, something changed in me. Suddenly, I saw that this could actually be something to look forward to and not dread. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how exciting it actually was. And it really was wonderful because he was (and still is!) an adorable, sweet, and lovable baby brother. I only hope he appreciates his position as much as I did.
Molly, Theresa, and baby Timmy.

Holes

By Bridget

The house we grew up in was old. Not terribly old, but it was built around the turn of the century. I know Grandma's house was older and that always bugged me because I wanted the oldest house. I'm not sure if it was true, but it was rumored to have once been a house of ill repute. Combining that with a story about there being an old illegal still down the road where there was an artesian well, and we decided that Al Capone had been in our house.


The front of the house. Pictured Dad and Bridget.

Our house was still heated with wood. There was a wood stove in the kitchen and one in the dining room. The stoves shared a chimney. In the dining room was a vent in the ceiling that you could open and close to get heat into the upstairs. The vent was on the floor in the room that Molly and I shared and was incredibly hard to open. It was also so cold downstairs that we didn't want to lose any of the precious heat, so it was always closed. If we were able to open it, dust and crayons and anything else that had fallen through the decorative top, would rain down on the room below.

In the living room, there was also a hole in the ceiling, rimmed with a decorative covering. This hole, I think had been for a stove, but asking Mary, she doesn't think it was. The hole was big enough to stick one's leg through but not big enough for anyone to actually fall through. However, many other things could fall through the hole. It was great for when someone needed something from upstairs and you could just drop it through the hole without having to run down the stairs.

One night, Mom had her church guild over for a meeting. Her guild was St. Columbanus and consisted of other church ladies who lived in our area of the parish. Mom sent us upstairs so we'd be out of their way. They held the meeting in the living room, so we all gathered around the hole to hear what they were saying. At first we just giggled as we watched them. I'm sure this irritated Mom enough, but she didn't tell us to move until we started dropping things onto the ladies below. The last straw was the pencil dropped onto the Avon lady.

Another time, my parents were watching the movie Psycho 3. They had let us watch Psycho and they never got Psycho 2, but they would not let us watch Psycho 3. We were sent to bed, and then they started watching it. We knew that's what they were going to do, so Danny, Mary and I gathered around the hole, hoping to see or at least hear something. The hole was against a wall and the tv was in a corner on the other side of the room. If we strained, one at a time, we could glimpse a corner of the tv. We could hear the movie and even without the visuals I got scared. Eventually, probably because of our shuffling to see anything, we were discovered and sent to bed. I was secretly quite happy.

The Cattle Guy

By Molly

What Bridget said about the cars driving by on the road is true. We could hear a car coming about a half mile away. If I was outside, I always turned to look and see what kind of car it was. If the car turned into the driveway someone would recognize it and announce to everyone else who it was. Each person that came had some kind of roll call. If someone yelled out "The Schwann Man's here," a frenzy of running would start in the house as we yelled at Mom what we wanted. Mom would then get riled up trying to find money why yelling back at us what we couldn't have. If the roll call was "The Avon lady is here!", it would be a frantic rush to clean off the kitchen table so the Avon lady could show her lotions and perfumes on a clean table.

Sometimes it was the Metal Man. The Metal Man came by every so often to buy old metal machinery off of Dad. Theresa and I had turned an old bailer into our restaurant one time. We scoured the garbage pits for old treasure and filled up the inside of the bailer. The day the Metal Man bought the bailer he and Dad had to spend a few hours shutting down our restaurant. Theresa and I got a speech that day about collecting trash.

Next was the Cattle Guy. I hated the Cattle Guy. He drove a white cadillac. My memory isn't the best but I am pretty sure he had a set of horns as his hood ornament. The Cattle Guy would drive around the country buying, what-else, cattle. I was fine with the cows going, but one day he turned his sights on the horses.

Mary, Star the horse, Danny, Bonny the horse, and Molly

What Cattle Guy buys horses? Not a very good one. He walked up to the horses, put the beer he was drinking between his knees and opened the horses mouths' to see their teeth. I guess he liked what he saw because he bought two of our horses. While I will admit, I was really impressed with his skills with handling a horse and beer at the same time, I was mad watching the horses leave. The next time he came looking for cows one of our dogs peed on his leg. I was so happy.

Walking the cows back out to the pasture after selling one.

Learning to Cuddle

By Theresa

When I was younger I hated sleeping alone. I tried to prolong sleeping with someone as long as I could by moving from bed to bed in the house. I don't think there even was an empty bed for me in the house until Danny left for college. By that time I had become so accustomed to sleeping with someone, I didn't like sleeping alone. So I convinced myself there were people outside my window talking in the middle of the night and I asked my mom if I could sleep with her. Although she had moved me out of her bed a while before, I was able to stay with her because she had recently had Timmy and thus another child sharing her bed.

The first time mom moved me out of her bed I was put in bed with my oldest sister Mary. Molly and Bridget didn't seem too accepting of having anyone else in their room, I think they had enough drama in there. I believe I did spend a night or two in there and I was stricken by night terrors. The room gave me the chills for a while so I tried to stay away.

So I was put in bed with Mary who had her own room. I remember being a bit shy, but I was excited because she was my older sister. But then it came time for bed and I discovered something about Mary that I wasn't excited about. Mary's feet were the coldest, iciest things imaginable and she insisted putting them on me to warm them up. If she was going to let me sleep with her, I had to endure her warming her frigid feet on my calves. It was incredibly uncomfortable and I couldn't wait until they were warm. It was the same every night and they never seemed to warm up quickly enough. She knew how much I hated it so she started reading books to me so I'd be distracted from the pain. It seemed like a good exchange to me and I liked being able to cuddle up right next to her to get warm and comfortable. And so it became that I not only liked to share beds but I also really like to be cuddled up close.

I was recently putting Mary's son, North, to sleep and was amazed how familiar it was sleeping next to him. He cuddled right up to me and put his tiny feet in between my knees to get warm and cozy. It was nice to see that we had both learned to cuddle from the same person.

Theresa and Mary

Dogs

By Bridget

There was usually at least one dog on the farm. Most often we got these dogs when their previous owner couldn't keep them anymore, as with Ace, our uncle Tim's dog. Sometimes they'd just show up. Hunter, showed up around deer hunting season, hence the name Hunter, which my friends later changed to Cancer when his tongue started rotting off. The first dog I remember us having was Lindy. She was a fluffy black and white dog. I don't know where we got her, but she was a very nice dog. She somehow got pregnant, perhaps by a visiting neighbor dog or by visiting a neighbor dog. I don't remember us having another dog at the time, but I was quite young.

Molly, Danny, Bridget, Theresa, Mary and Lindy the dog.
She eventually had her litter in the hollow bottom of an old tree down by the marshy area by the road. Finding where our dogs or cats had given birth was hard. We had so many places perfect for giving birth: feed troughs, bundles of twine, hay piles, or even old trees as Lindy did. She had a few puppies and as always, we each decided which one was ours and named them. I was, oh so creative and clever at the time, so I named mine Puppy.

Mary, cousins- Michelle, Annie, Megan, & Brian, and Danny holding Lindy's puppies

I'm not sure what happened with all the other puppies from Lindy's litter, but I only remember my Puppy surviving. Perhaps there weren't as many as I thought there were or maybe they died or were given away. But I remember Puppy being around for awhile. She was a thin, short-haired dog, not at all fluffy like her mom. Her being "my dog" didn't really mean much to anyone except me. And even to me it didn't mean anything except I could say I'd named her.

Anyways, eventually, our dad ran her over. Our dad has ran over a lot of animals, a few dogs, a few cats, who knows what else. He ran over Puppy while he was cutting hay. Though the year was 1980-something, our dad farmed with horses. Our horses at the time were probably Nancy and Mike, or perhaps Sadie was still there. He cut hay with a machine that had sharp, triangular blades attached to a long metal arm that could be moved up and down. Puppy, and most of our dogs, always followed the horses out to the fields and ran alongside them as they worked. Puppy got in the way of the blade, and got a leg cut off. I remember this had happened before with a dog, but that dog had two legs cut off and had to adapt to only having the front legs and dragging its butt along. Puppy only lost one leg, so was much more fortunate. She was able to live for awhile longer with only three legs. She still chased cars and still tried to follow the horses. Sadly, she met her demise by once again getting ran over, this time for good.

Losing my Bed

By Molly

Bridget is three I years older than I am. She always has been ever since I was born. I asked her daughter Hazel yesterday when I should have kids and she told me not until I am her mom's age. I am the same age Bridget was when she had Hazel but I won't tell Hazel that because I hope she will keep telling me not until I am as old as her mom. I will never be that. I understand age difference now but when I was younger I never understood why Bridget was always older than me and why she learned to do things before me.

Bridget learned to read about three years before I did. Once she learned to read she never stopped. She was so proud of being able to read. She bragged to me all the time that she could read and I couldn't. I was so frustrated by this. One day we were in the sheep barn and she had a book and she kept reading from it and then would ask me to read and when I failed she laughed and teased me that I would never be able to read.

Bridget reading
The day Bridget learned how to write her name she came home from school and showed me again that she could do something I could not. We shared a room at time. Bridget told me we were going to play a game. The rules of the game were simple. We each got a crayon. After Bridget said go we had to run around the room writing our name on everything that was ours. Bridget handed me a crayon and said go. She proceeded to write her name on her bed, her dressers, her toys. After she had marked everything of hers she moved onto my things. While I sat and cried with my crayon in my hand struggling to learn to write my name she claimed my dresser, my toys, and my side of the closet. She eventually overtook my bed. I wailed at the thought that now I no longer owned anything because clearly you could read Bridget but my scribbles had no meaning.

Bridget going to school.

Becky

By Molly

Mary always says she had a completely different childhood than I did. She claims hers was much more difficult, mom was meaner to her, she had to wear old wool to Christmas plays etc., etc. I am not sure I believe all of it. Especially that hers was more difficult. She never had to grow up with an older sister who didn't share.

Mary had a doll named Becky. This doll was the prettiest doll I have ever seen. Her hair was red and lush, begging to be brushed. Her lips were curved into a bright inviting smile. She was graced with small freckles on her cheeks. Becky wore a green summer dress every day. She really was amazing.

We all kept our toys all together in the living room, but Becky was kept in Mary's room. Mary never let us play with Becky. I remember being told specifically not to touch her. Becky was Mary's doll only. Sure I could share all my Barbies with Mary but I could never play with Becky. Even if all 4 of us sisters were playing together and Mary blessed us with Becky's presence, Mary never shared her. She always voiced Becky, brushed her hair and put her shoes on and off. It was unbearable. Becky was strong and kept smiling the whole time, but under the smile I knew there was a hurt, that she wanted to be shared.

Being that Mary is 5 years older than I she had a much more full social calendar. Whenever Mary left the house Theresa and I would sneak into her room and play with Becky. We would style her flowing hair with the small brush she preferred, we would touch the freckles on her face and tell her we would be friends for a long time. It was lovely. Those afternoons when Mary was no longer there to stand between me, Theresa, and Becky were perfection. Theresa and I had a pact never to tell Mary.

It all went well until one day Theresa wrote on Becky. Theresa had a pen and decided to draw on Becky. I never knew why she did it but it ruined everything. We had to confess to Mary. Mary was mad but I it didn't compare to the pain I felt for Becky. She had those pen marks on her forever.

Before my dad sold the house we grew up in as children we spent a few days cleaning it out. I found Becky in a box in one of the closet. She was a little worse for wear, her dress had faded, her hair was in snarls but even through all that, after 20 long years, she still had her same unfading smile.

Becky now lives in a storage box in Mary's basement. The pen marks have worn with time.

Middle of Nowhere

By Bridget

We lived at least half a mile from our nearest neighbors. And they lived about half a mile from their nearest neighbors. Few cars drove past our farm during the day, far fewer at night. Most often, the vehicle driving past would be a tractor. Our biggest excitement during the day would be the mailman. He came around noon, the same time that "All My Children", our mom's soap opera, was on. We noticed everyone who drove past our farm as we were always outside, and when we were inside, from noon to one, we had a large window that faced the road and included a view of the mailbox. So when the mailman came, one of us would run down to the mailbox, during a commercial. Our driveway wasn't that long, except during the winter, then, you'd try to slip on whatever pair of shoes was most available, and run without a coat on to the mailbox. Danny once dared us to run down to the mailbox, in the winter, barefoot. I remember I made it and it was awful. Once we learned to ride a bike, it was much faster and easier to make it back before the commercials were over.

At night when we'd take walks, our mom would make us hide in the ditch if any cars passed. We'd see the lights coming down the road and she'd yell for us to get in the ditch. It was very exciting and scary. I'd close my eyes so they wouldn't be reflected by the lights and give away our hiding spot. It was hard to keep whatever dog we had at the time in the ditch with us as they were usually car-chasing dogs, but if you petted them enough, they'd stay. I don't know why we'd hide in the ditch as anyone who passed was a neighbor or going to our house. If it was someone going to our house, we'd sometimes jump out of the ditch to stop them to talk to them, but often we wouldn't realize who it was until they'd turn into the driveway.

Bridget and Molly near the driveway. Please notice the sheep by the table in the background.

Walking

By Mary

I grew up walking. We walked everywhere. We were always walking. We would purposefully go for a walk, but even when we didn't we were walking. We would walk out to the field to watch Dad mowing hay, plowing fields. When we got older we would walk out to relieve someone from baling hay or we walked out to watch them bale hay or we would just walk beside them and watch. We would walk out to the big woods to walk through the trees. We would walk up the hill to the sand pit to go swimming. We would walk to the sand pit to play in the sand to run down the hills. We would walk to the orchard to climb trees and pick apples it was the season. We would walk out to the pasture to check on the cows. We would walk out to the other pasture to check on the sheep. We would walk to the pasture to check on the horses. We would walk to the pasture to get the horses for farm work. We would walk to the neighbors to get the horses after they escaped. We would walk to the pasture to watch dogs being shot because they were going after the sheep. We would walk out to the pasture to bring the cows into the barn yard so one could be sold. We would walk to the nieghbors to deliver phone messages. We would walk out to the pasture to go sledding. We would walk out to the other pasture to go ice skating.

Now, I love to walk. I don't care if it's raining, snowing, freezing. I just want to get out and walk. It makes me thinks; it feels good. I walk to the grocery store, to the park, to friend's houses, around the block, but I miss the walks to the pasture, to the big woods, to the orchard, to the fields....


Walking out to the cow pasture to watch Dad & the neighbor mend the fence.