If there was one place I loved more than home it was my grandparent's ranch in the Sandhills.  We visited twice a year, in summer and during Christmas vacation, since my dad was a teacher and those were the easiest times to go.

The memories from those visits still give me those "feelings" in my heart that can't be explained.  I was remembering one about my grandpa the other morning as I was drinking my hot weak tea.  Grandpa didn't like mushy things and I took after him, but as he got older he would eat his morning burnt toast with hot water poured over it.  I thought then and for several years, that I would never drink only hot water. 

Well, I do, because after cancer surgery and treatment leaving me with a dry mouth, warm water feels a lot better and goes down a lot easier than cold. 

A New Bedroom

 When we first moved into our house on West Park Street in 1969, my sister and I slept in the south bedroom upstairs which was dark with paneling.  Outside the windows was the porch roof on which I daringly sat a few times, but never without my parents knowledge -- maybe.  And, that would have been after we moved to the north bedroom and it belonged to my brothers.  The middle bedroom was Dad's "study", in there he had the chaise lounge we loved to lay on, and his TV.  It was that year, that we watched the moon landing.  When that room was turned into Mom and Dad's room, Dad having moved his books and TV to the basement, we chose the north bedroom. I think we chose it only because it was not the room we were currently in.  My brothers used the south bedroom after they were born anyway, which was after 1969.

The only way to get into the upstairs bathroom was through that north bedroom, so Dad took out the door, closed in the wall and made a door in the room we called "the kitchen" because at one time the upstairs was a separate apartment and that was the kitchen. (The sink and cupboards were still there, and we used it for storage and a playroom) Mom let my sister and I pick the carpet and paint colors.  We chose gold high/low carpet and lavender paint.  Our dressers were painted purple and Mom or Dad made bulletin boards painted lavender with purple trim.  When we got along we put our beds together, when we weren't we made an imaginary line down the middle.  There were two closets in that room.  One was the product of the door removal and was a small ordinary sized closet.  The other one was big enough for me to get all the way in for a private space.  Eventually, I wanted a shelf, desk height, so my sister and I walked to the "lumber yard" 3 1/2 blocks away, and carried away a 1 x 12, after charging it.  I don't know how long it was, 8 ft. maybe, with me on one end and my sister on the other, we carried it between us all the way home. That board made more shelves than the desk and when I was feeling like I needed to be by myself I would work in that closet. 

When I was a girl I was enchanted by stories of the pioneers and wished long dresses were "in." In the 70s, mini skirts were out and our skirts fell just below the knee.  If Mom didn't make our clothes, we wore hand-me-downs. I had a long skirt made out of quilted material. It was long and just right for wearing in that closet in the cold upstairs. One winter mom made us "night caps" to wear with our long flannel nightgowns. Eventually, I suppose we grew out of flannel nightgowns, but they were warm on cold nights.

The upstairs in our house ran on a different thermostat than the downstairs and it was kept at 55 degrees in the winter.  Hot water radiators make the best heat, but it takes time to heat up. There were times when we'd turn up the heat to warm up our pillows and blankets before turning it down again and snuggling under our pile of heavy quilts for the night. 

Is My Memory Your Memory?

Remembering things is very important to me.  I have some strange problems with mine.  I don't always remember who people are by looking at their face, unless it's someone I know really well.  There are some things I don't remember because I don't have any photographs of the event.  For example, I went to Hershey, PA when I was 22 with a friend and took pictures.  I was told that I was at Hershey, when my family took the trip east to Washington, DC, when I was 20, I think, taking in Pennsylvania 

on the way.  I didn't remember. I still don't.  I remember the pictures I took of my brothers at the Gettysburg battlefield, but I don't remember being at Hershey.  I was there. Surely, the 5 other members of my family are telling the truth; surely they didn't leave me behind at the motel.  And there's the matter of the sleep shirt with Hershey on it, that didn't appear out of thin air.  

The reason I've taken thousands of photos over the years, is that I'm afraid I'll forget something.  This blog was made for that reason, so I can put snippets of my memories on here, fondly thinking that someday my children will be interested in my past life.  I have written down somewhere, the story of my beginnings, someday that may go in here as well

The February 2021, Reader's Digest had a little article on memory.  We may think that our memories are true pictures of what really happened around certain events.  That isn't true.  Here are some excerpts from that article: "So, how does memory work?... it is something like an old man sitting by a campfire somewhere deep in your brain. He means well and wants to help, but he doesn't show you your past like some wizard with a time portal.  The best he can do it tell you stories.  And like all good story tellers, he edits for impact, efficiency, functionality and clarity.  He  tells you what he assumes you need to know. Some times he may even embellish the tale by adding a bit of flavor," whether it's true or not. "there is no consistent, orderly or rational sense to it.  It's not like a computer hard drive..." with orderly files.  "human memory is not reliable...It's a documentary at best....When you remember, your memory tells your brain a story, and much is lost in transit."

Memories can get smashed together or pieces left out.  It doesn't always appear when we want it. We tend to remember the good things better than the bad ones, and change the bad ones, to 'not so bad.'

What is included in this blog are my stories, the way I remember them.

We're Going to Grandma and Grandpa's!

As far back as I can remember, going to Grandma and Grandpa Appleman's was the highlight of the year.  When I was a little kid it meant lots of cousins to play with.  We saw them 4 times a year and that wasn't enough.  Later, it was the traditions that called me.  Knowing that my mother lived here and that my uncles still farm the land and raise cattle, makes me feel that this land is my land, just as much as theirs.

 It was a tradition, coming every summer and every Christmas vacation.  It was the same every year and I loved it.  In August we went irrigating with Grandpa or the cousins, climbed the big hill, walked over to Uncle Robert and Aunt Wilma's or Uncle John and Aunt Verna's, slept downstairs in the big room by the gas heater, and begged to be allowed to swim in Plum Creek.  During Christmas vacation, the whole family gathered to eat a big dinner.  If there was snow we would slide down the big hill, coming in to lay our wet things on the floor furnace grate between the kitchen and dining room. We  read comics and played games, all around was noise and fun and laughter and uncles and aunts and cousins.

As I grew into a teenager things began to change. We still went to visit winter and summer.  We still went irrigating, walked over to see the cousins and had big dinners.  Now married cousins were coming with the children.  It was still an enchanted time and one I will never forget.

After I was married, we didn't go twice a year as my family had done and now my brothers were making their own memories with the younger set of cousins.  When we did go to visit we took our children to play in the house and climb and sled the big hill,

Those days are gone now, my grandparents have passed and no one lives in the house where so many, many people have lived, loved and laughed together.  Those days are still precious memories to me.

These are the best pictures of the way I remember my grandparents.  When I was born Grandma still had brown hair, but I don't remember her ever having anything but gray hair.  This was taken in 1981 on their 50th wedding anniversary.

This one was taken on their 70th anniversary. 

"We're going to Grandma and Grandpa's!"  There was magic in those words.  They would take me to a place I loved to be.  A place wrapped up with my earliest memories, a place where time stood still.  My heritage, my roots were firmly planted there.  A place and time I was sure would last forever.  

It was a long drive, the 200 miles from our house to theirs took four hours in our station wagon.  I knew we were getting close when we came to the Long Pine hills.  Those deep cuts in the landscape on either side of that little town, kept me on the edge of my seat as we drove way, way down and back up again.  It was a fearful sort of excitement, like driving through the mountains, before I knew what mountains were really like.  Now, even though the hills are still the same, the road has been built up so the road isn't as steep as it was.  From there the few miles to Ainsworth flew by and we looked for the Christmas decorations on the courthouse lawn during the winter trip.  The next landmark the the airport signal, flashing green and white as we left town.  Five miles more brought us to the turn onto the gravel road, over the irrigation canal, past the airport on another five mile trip to the lane leading to the house.  We couldn't see the house yet as we went up the rise from the intersection.  Once we topped that we could look down into the yard and see the house.  Down the hill we went, turning to park in front of the house.  They would be watching for us and would turn on the yard light for us. Then we would run for the house, letting the white and green picket gate fall shut behind us, listening for the "thrrrrupp, thrrrrupp" sound it made,

 and we knew we were there at last.  

My grandparents were married in Oklahoma and moved to Nebraska in 1933 to take over a ranch south of Wood Lake that belonged to Grandpa's sister, Ruth and her husband, Os, and his half brother, Rudy.  This was The Great Depression and Grandpa had a hard time finding work so they thought this would be a good chance. Their children were all born while they were living out there, John, Robert, Linda (mom), Barbara and Wanda. In 1955 they moved to this ranch northeast of Johnstown and northwest of Ainsworth so the girls could be educated more easily.  Their oldest son, John, was already married and moved with them to a place half a mile west of Grandma and Grandpa's and they continued to ranch together.  

This house was fenced with woven wire to keep the dogs and chickens out.  Their front gate clattered shut several times a day when we were there running in and out, sometimes just to hear its noise.  When they grew older Grandpa put a spring on the gate so it would swing shut more quietly and not make that clatter I associated with my visits there.   It let it slam hard many times myself just to hear that joyful noise that meant, "we are at Grandma and Grandpa's."

It is hard to explain, really, why this place means so much to me.  I loved every part of it.  The turning from the country road onto the sandy lane than runs a quarter-mile right into the house place.  All around us was Appleman land and farther on, more than I realized lay hundreds of acres west and north of the home place.  I didn't know how much land he held until I was grown up. They might have been rich ranchers.  It sure didn't show in the way Grandpa lived.  Most of those acres were pasture land with some in the "canyons" by Plum Creek.  They also raised hay and corn in those sandy fields.  My uncles, John and Robert farmed with Grandpa as soon as they were able, each having their own place as well. John and Robert both had a dairy.  

We were truly in Appleman country.  My uncles came to the home place to feed cows, to repair machinery, to drop off milk for their parents and visit.  Most of my favorite people were all in one place.  

The east end of the garage was a little lower than the main floor.  Here was Grandpa's shop, the walls decorated with every license plate he had ever owned.  

The barn sits directly east of the house.  I remember when Grandpa had a milk cow, and watching him milk.  That was a long time ago.  I probably wasn't more than 7.

This chicken house doesn't house chickens anymore.  I remember when chickens roamed the yard and watching new chicks in the incubator.  We thought we were really brave when we climbed on the roof.  I crawled through the chicken door when I was almost big enough to know that chickens are pretty dirty.  I wanted to prove how skinny I was.  

Walking past the chicken house and around the back of the garden was an old corn crib and the corrals where cattle were fed in the winter time.  I would ride the silage wagon while Uncle Robert fed the cattle.  I remember the sharp, sweet smell of silage, it reminded me of those good days. 

When I was a kid there was another larger garden south of the house past the "new shop" and the old open grain bins where they kept ear corn.  The only thing I remember in this garden was the strawberry patch.  Strawberries always taste better eaten directly from the vine.  I still remember their warm sweetness.  

"The Big Hill" was our favorite play place.  South of the house, we climbed up the top to look over the fields to Robert and Wilma's, about a mile away.  In the summer, as far as I looked north, east and south, were miles of pasture land and corn fields.  We always hoped for a snowy winter visit so we could sled down the big hill. 

Once upon a time a windmill stood here, this concrete cistern was covered with a glass top.  We couldn't look through it, it wasn't clear and was covered with droplets.

When I was little they were picking ear corn and storing them in the corn cribs.  

It seems like the place never changed.  It was a feeling of permanence for someone growing up under the shadow of the cold war.  I think that's why I loved it so much, inside and out. 

Inside we gathered for family dinners, after dinner games and visits, and quilting.

For some reason this porch was so interesting to me.  It was unheated in the winter and used like an extra fridge.  It was a place to shunt a bunch of noisy kids out from under the grown-up's feet. Out of the door from this porch there was a landing with a few steps into a smaller storage area that had a stairway to the basement.  It was dark and dank but made a place of mystery that we used when we played our version of hide-and-seek that we called "witch", and was played in pitch dark.  The idea was some of the cousins would hide and the rest to seek.  The seekers would call, "Speak now or forever hold your peace!"  What really happened is we stumbled over things and each other shrieking in the dark and had a marvelous time together. 

All of the fun at Grandma and Grandpa's wasn't only at their place.  We loved to go and swim at Plum Creek.  Where we went was a shallow, swift running, sandy stream.  I really don't know why I loved to go so much.  The cousins that lived there, weren't nearly as enthused to go, so we had to beg pretty hard for someone to take us.  We would get pretty sandy.  I suppose that gets old. 

The first time I visited my grandparent's place after I grew up, the big hill wasn't so big anymore. To a little kid it seemed to reach the sky.  It's still a lovely hill, it just isn't as big as I remember. Most of the rest is still the same, the sandy lane that leads to the yard, the green and white gate that still thumps to welcome us to the small white stucco house with green trim as we run in to be greeted again by our grandparents.  

We brought our children to see Grandma and Grandpa.  They were too young to remember much about the visit or the place.  The visit was more for me, for more memories with Grandparents I loved.

We climbed the Big Hill.

We slid down the Big Hill

Lynette ate her lunch in the same high chair I did on visits.

We recreated the photo that Aunt Barb took of me in the doll's dress.  

We went to Grandma's and Grandpa's when they celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary and later that same year my brother Andy wanted to show his kids their house and we met there for a few days visit.  I like to think the magic of the old place isn't only felt by me. 

Those pillars held a particular attraction for me.  I sat and stood on them plenty of times when we were there. 

There used to be a picture around of me eating strawberries out of this very garden. Now, Lynette has the chance. 

These pictures of the wideness of the landscape and the silhouettes of the people speak to me of the essence of what the sandhills has to offer.  Beautiful country and wide open spaces. 

The gate--now green and white, not white and green. 

"but, I think its the place itself as well as its people, which drew him so irresistibly."

--"The Plum Thicket", Janice Holt Giles