The Olympics

I'm not obsessed with the Olympics, but do find it annoying that when I log onto the internet during the day, the first thing I see is Olympic results. It kind of ruins the plan of watching the competitions in the evening. My favorite summer event to watch is women's gymnastics and my favorite winter event is women's figure skating. Today when I got on the internet, the first thing I saw was the results of the women's gymnastics team results. It really took away the anticipation of watching tonight. It also made me laugh and made me think of my dad.

In February 1994, the winter olympics were held in Lillehammer, Norway. The women's figure skating was especially exciting that year. Only a few weeks earlier, U.S. skater, Nancy Kerrigan was hit in the leg with a police baton in a deliberate attack. It was later found to be planned by her rival, Tonya Harding. Kerrigan recovered in time for the Olympics and both she and Harding were skating there. Since the time zone in Norway is ahead of us by several hours, the results were known before the event was televised in the U.S. We didn't have internet then, so I did a good job of not hearing the results during the day. Eric and I were headed to the farm the night the finals were to be televised. As soon as we got there, I told Mother and Daddy that I didn't want to know the results and wanted to watch the finals on t.v.

The four of us sat down in the t.v. room to watch the finals. After the short program earlier, Nancy Kerrigan was in first place headed into the long program. Oksana Baiul of Ukraine was in second. Tonya Harding was in a distant tenth place. I (like most of America) was cheering for Nancy Kerrigan to win gold. Mother and Daddy told me that they already knew what happened. I reminded them several times that I didn't want to know. We watched some of the lower ranked skaters. It was just getting to the top skaters. Suddenly, Daddy couldn't contain himself any longer. He burst out that Oksana Baiul won the gold, all because of the German judge. Eric burst out laughing. I had done so well not hearing the results ahead of time. I was only minutes away from seeing the event play out, and Daddy let the cat out of the bag. I was disappointed, but we still watched the rest of the finals. After seeing such a controversial judging finish, I understood why Daddy couldn't hold it in.

Over the years, Eric and I have laughed about Daddy's blurting out those results more times than I can remember. I could be having the worst day ever, and remembering that night will make me laugh. So, when I saw those results on the internet today, I thought of Daddy and laughed. Lauren and I are now watching the women's gymnastics finals together and I am doing my best not to slip up and tell her how it ends.

The Cave

Growing up, we simply called it, "The Cave". It is a very small little cave tucked away in a wooded area over the hill behind the farm. It's not on Betz property. In fact, I'm not even sure whose land it is on. When I was little, my brothers and sisters would occasionally make the walk to the cave. It was rare that I was invited to go along. It was probably because I was the youngest and it was a long trek to get to the cave. It took forever to get there. At least it seemed that way back then.

The tiny cave is made of sandstone and is located in the side of a wooded hill. It has 3 "rooms": One small room and then a tiny room off to each side of the small room. When I was a kid, I always thought of this cave as being a lot like the spot where Jesus was buried. I could just imagine a stone sitting ajar at the mouth of the cave and people peering in to see that Jesus body was no longer there.

The walls of the cave are covered with the carvings of the names of those who have visited the cave over the years. There is an old abandoned well very close to the cave. As kids, we were told to watch out for that well if we walked to the cave. If we fell in, we might never be found. I never understood why there was a well dug there, far from any house. The cave was most likely dug out of the hillside by someone long ago who wanted a storage cellar of some kind. The same person is likely to have dug the long abandoned well.

There also was the story of a farmer from years ago who had been in the woods near the cave, chopping wood. He accidentally hit himself in the leg with the axe and bled to death before he could make his way back home. Just today I found an old newspaper article about that man's accident. He actually was in a field near his house, not by the cave when his axe hit an artery in his leg. He made it back to his house. His wife tried to phone for help, but the telephone wasn't working. She flagged down a passing car to get help, but by the time help arrived, her husband had bled to death. When I was young and heard about this accident, I thought it had happened in the early 1900's. In reality, it was in 1952. Apparently the reason I thought the accident happened near the cave was simply because this man and his wife used to own the land where the cave is located.

It had been decades since I'd been up to the cave. Easter weekend of 2009, some of us decided we would make the hike to the cave. It had been so long since I'd been there, I didn't even know the way. It turned out that it was closer than I ever knew. What I used to think was an hours long hike turned out to be maybe a half mile from the farm house. What used to seem like a huge forest where the cave was located, turned out to be about 1/8 the size of what I expected. It didn't take long to locate the cave. It was just as I remembered it. Except I never realized how many names had been carved into the walls. What a treasure it was to find my dad's name carved there.  Mother's name was no where to be found. I imagine she never set foot in the cave. She did not like caves in the least. I saw a lot of names I recognized carved there, as well as many I didn't. I did not see Mary Magdalene or Virgin Mary there, so I guess this wasn't where Jesus was buried.

Only 5 days after visiting the cave in 2009, my dad died. A few days after Daddy's death, I walked up to that cave again, just to see his name carved in the wall. Some how, knowing he'd been there all those years before and had carved his name there made me feel closer to him. In much the same way that his name had been etched there, my memories of him and his love for his family have been forever etched in my heart.

Kookulash

I suppose that baking is in my blood. My Grandpa Miller owned a bakery. That is where he met my Grandma Miller. My mom certainly inherited the baking gene. She loved baking cookies, cakes, cinnamon rolls, bread, coffee cakes, apple kuchen, and lots of other treats. She loved it when each of her grandchildren were old enough to go to the lazy susan in her kitchen in search of cookies that she had made for them. It was one of the first things each of her grandkids learned to do at her house. Inside the door of that lazy susan were ice cream pails full of Grandma's yummy cookies.

Once when Danielle was probably about 4 years old, we were on our way to see my parents for the weekend. We stopped at Eric's parents in Rochester. Eric's mom offered Danielle some of her homemade cookies. Danielle responded, "No thanks. I'm waiting for the cookies at the farm!" I remember telling my mom that when we got to the farm and she just laughed. Well, she laughed and offered Danielle some cookies, of course!

Evan and Lauren also learned pretty quickly that Grandma always had cookies on hand. And just in case they hadn't eaten enough while we were there, Grandma would always send some home with us too. My kids liked to say that Grandma added the secret ingredient of love in her cookies.

I liked to tease my kids that I had a great memory before having them. If I couldn't remember something, I'd tell them that each baby I had took a bit of my brain. One day a few years ago I said that to Evan. He responded that with as many babies as Grandma had, the only part of her brain that must be left was the cookie making part! Of course, knowing Evan the way I do, I'm sure to him that was the most important part of Grandma's brain!

I don't make a lot of cookies throughout the year, but at Christmastime, I go a little overboard. I make and freeze about 10 different kinds of cookies in the weeks leading up to Christmas. The funny thing is that not one of them is a recipe my mom ever used. The last Christmas that my dad was alive, one of the varieties I made was Peppermint Melt-Aways. As the name suggests, they are little buttery peppermint flavored cookies with peppermint frosting and finely chopped candy canes sprinkled on top. They basically melt in your mouth. There was a plate of them sitting on the kitchen table at the farm that Christmas, and my dad would reach out and eat one after another of them. At that point, he really wasn't eating much of anything any more, so to see him eat those cookies did my heart good. Apparently Evan noticed too, because each of the last 3 years, he has insisted I make them again, "because Grandpa loved them!"

The Christmas cookie that everyone asks me to make each year are my Cookie Dough Truffles. They are more of a candy than a cookie, but they are addicting. That is part of the reason I only make them once a year.

But I must admit that my baking and cooking skills have developed over the years. The first recipe I remember making as a kid was my own creation. I called it Kookulash (pronounced coo-cull-osh). Honestly, until titling this post, I'm not sure I ever before wrote down the word Kookulash before so I had to think about how to spell it. I will now give away my secret recipe for Kookulash. It is made of crushed Ritz Crackers and water stirred together. I know you are all wondering why you didn't think of this tasty creation on your own. Either that or you are thinking that the name Kookulash is appropriate because only a Kook would come up with it. I don't recommend trying that recipe.

My sister Char got an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas one year. This was one of the original Easy Bake Ovens. It was a bluish green color and came with it's own cookbook. We made a ton of the chocolate cakes out of that recipe book. Somehow I ended up with that cookbook over the years. But I have the chocolate cake recipe memorized. I still love the taste of that cake. But always make it from scratch. The packages of Easy Bake Oven Cake Mix they sell are nasty!

That Easy Bake Oven inspired Char, Mike and I to have our own Bake-Off a few times. This came from watching the Pillsbury Bake-Off every year with Mother. I still remember that once a year As The World Turns was interrupted in order for the Pillsbury Bake-Off to be televised. It was so fun to watch and I dreamed of being there one day. The only Easy Bake-Off creation of mine that I remember didn't go quite as I planned. I can't remember all the ingredients I used, but the main two were marshmallows and green food coloring. I pushed the little pan into the Easy Bake oven and couldn't wait for the finished product. Watching thru the window, I saw the marshmallows start to rise from the heat. How cool, it was rising like a cake. Only, it didn't stop! The marshmallows puffed up more and more and I knew I had to get my creation out of the Easy Bake Oven. Well, as I pushed it through to the cooking area, a lot of the marshmallow fluff was scraped off and landed on the inside of the Easy Bake Oven. Needless to say, I didn't win that Bake-Off. And Char and Mike named my creation for me: Green Slime! By the way, if you think that conventional ovens were tough to clean before the self clean feature was added, I have to tell you that it's a piece of cake compared to trying to clean the inside of an Easy Bake Oven. Or perhaps I should say, a piece of green slime! Putting this down in words just made me think of an invention to make my million dollars: A self cleaning Easy Bake Oven!

Today, there are tons of cooking shows on TV. In fact there is the Food Network. Evan loves to watch that channel. He then likes to critique  my cooking, by telling me things like my vegetables aren't uniformly chopped. I always tell him that if he can do a better job, he is welcome to do the cooking. He and Lauren also like to try to arrange their food on their dinner plates the way that they have seen on Food Network.

Dani and Evan both like to cook and bake. Many mornings, Evan will make muffins or cinnamon or caramel rolls. He claims he wants to own a bakery some day. I've tasted his baking and I think he might be onto something. I sure hope he'll give his own mom a discount! I'm sure he'd never hire me to work for him. Especially if I shared my Kookulash and Green Slime recipes with him.

The Traumas of School Days

I never had a chance at having a perfect attendance record in my school career. It's not that I was sick a lot. The truth is, I skipped my very first day of Kindergarten. That's right, I skipped it. I was a very shy 5 year old. (I know, I know it's hard to believe that now.) I was terrified of being away from my mom for that long. No doubt I carried on and cried my eyes out. Since I was the baby of the family, my mom gave in and let me stay home with her that first day. Not that it really helped me any. I just had to face my fears the next day. It helped that my kindergarten teacher was so nice. Mrs. Schroeder was a natural at teaching kindergartners. I quickly settled in that first day that I actually went to school. All was going well, until nap time. I laid down on my blue and red nap mat and quickly fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I felt something hit me. I awoke to the boys in the class throwing bean bags at me. Of course I burst into tears. It worked to my advantage though, as Mrs. Schroeder let me sit on her lap until I calmed down. I think I kept one eye open during nap time for the rest of the school year.

I did have a couple of other rather traumatic things happen to me in kindergarten. The first was at our Halloween party. This was in the early 1970's when kids were allowed to wear full face masks that had just eye holes. Mother took me to the Ben Franklin store in town and let me choose a mask. Being a farm girl, I chose a cow mask. That was my costume...a cow mask, nothing else. I was proud of that mask and couldn't wait for the school party. Then the worst possible thing happened. Two other girls in my class had Raggedy Ann costumes. And they were full costumes: mask and outfit. I still liked my cow mask better, but those Raggedy Ann girls started dancing in a circle together and wouldn't let a cow join in. I don't remember, but I bet I ended up on Mrs. Schroeder's lap that day too.

One of the biggest honors in kindergarten was being chosen to hold the flag during the daily reciting of The Pledge of Allegiance. It seemed like I waited forever for my turn to sit on the little stool and hold the flag. Finally, my day arrived. What I hadn't realized was how heavy that flag and pole with it's pointy end would be. And the pledge seemed to go on forever that day. Before I knew it, my arms couldn't take that terrible weight any more. As my arms gave out, the pointy tip on the pole of the flag hit another little girl on the head, which made her cry. Mrs. Schroeder asked me if I hit the girl on purpose. Apparently I wasn't too bright at age 5, because I didn't know what "on purpose" meant. So naturally, I started crying once again. And of course, then I got to sit on Mrs. Schroeder's lap again.

Some how I managed to survive and pass kindergarten. I then moved from the public school to St. John's Lutheran School for the next eight years of my education. Most of those years are a blur to me, but there are a few highlights and lowlights that stand out. My very favorite thing about first and second grade was the Animal Cookie poem. We would recite it and then get a snack of animal crackers. In my mind, this happened every day, but it probably wasn't that often. We once were given the assignment of writing the whole poem. I still have mine. It's pretty funny to see the way I spelled things back then.

During my early years at St. Johns, the girls were required to wear dresses, except on Fridays when we could wear pants. Perhaps this is where "casual Fridays" originated. Mother would dress us in home sewn dresses and knee socks. The stylish girls in my class always wore tights. Oh how I longed for a pair or two of colorful tights. They seemed so dressy and cute. Mother insisted that knee socks were more practical and would keep my legs warmer. Still, I begged and begged for a pair of tights. Finally, Mother cracked and bought me a pair of kelly green tights. I was so excited. The next day I wore them to school along with my favorite dress that was also kelly green with little wooden shoes in many colors on it. Finally I fit in with the stylish girls. Well, at least until I managed to get a huge hole in one leg of the tights. I don't remember how it happened, but I felt terrible. Mother was right, knee socks were more practical and lasted longer than tights. I knew that Mother had spent money on that pair of tights and now I had ruined them. I don't remember what she said to me when I got home that day, but I know I never asked for, or received, another pair of tights. To this day, when I think back to those tights, I get a guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I distinctly remember other girls in my class wetting themselves during class. We'd be learning about something and suddenly we'd hear a little tinkle sound. I never understood why they didn't raise their hand to go to the bathroom. Maybe wearing tights let the cold air hit them too quickly to raise their hand. I can proudly say that I never wet myself at school. However, what happened to me is even worse.

In those days, at St. John's, there was no hot lunch served. We had to bring our own lunch from home. We would eat it at our desks before heading out for recess. Many days, Mother would send us to school with a thermos full of Campbell's soup. This was in the day that thermoses had a glass insert. If you dropped your lunch box, the glass inside the thermos would shatter. One day I was eating my soup during lunch time and turned around to tell my friend a joke: "Why did Santa Claus only use 7 reindeer last year? Because he left Comet home to clean the sink!" After telling the punch line, I turned back around in my seat and knocked over my thermos of piping hot Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup. It spilled all over my pants (it must have been a Friday if I was wearing pants.) Mrs. Jacobson rushed me into the bathroom and told me to get out of my pants. She then instructed me to stay in the bathroom while she took my pants to the house next door, where she would have the principal's wife wash and dry my pants for me. She brought me back a pair of the principal's wife's pants for me to wear while mine were washed. The pants were huge on me. The principal's wife was not a big woman, but she was bigger than the average 3rd grader. At the time, I was sure she had sent a pair of maternity pants for me to wear. After this trauma during lunch, the other kids were being extra nice to me and asked me to go out and play kick ball with them. I was too afraid that the huge pants I was wearing would fall down, so I opted for indoor recess that day.

Another day during 3rd grade I stayed home sick. When I came back to school, I had to make up an art project that was going to be a Christmas present for Mother and Daddy. The other students projects were on display and when I saw them I panicked. They were cute tiny little felt covered bibles, about the size of a bar of soap. On the cover of the Bible, was a cross made of sequins. I wondered how on earth I would ever be able to get the entire Bible written in time for Christmas. I was quite relieved when my teacher showed me that the Bible actually was a bar of soap covered in felt with a ribbon around the edge that looked like pages. Wow...it was a fabulous art project to look so real. My Bible was displayed in the living room at the farm for years.

During one of my later years at St. John's we had a spelling bee. The winner would go to a regional spelling bee at Luther High in Onalaska. It was down to me and one other girl. I don't remember the word that I was given, but the truth was, I didn't want to go to the regional spelling bee, so I spelled the word incorrectly, on purpose. And yes, by this time I knew what the words "on purpose" meant. The other girl was thrilled to go to the regionals and I never told her that I let her win, so it all worked out.

When I was going into one of my last years of high school, Mother and I went school supply shopping in LaCrosse. We were at Shopko and I spotted an outfit that I just had to have. It was navy blue corduroy pants, a blue checked blouse and a navy blue corduroy blazer. I begged for it. Mother told me that it was more than she ever spent on an outfit for any of the other kids. She had no problem buying me the pants and the blouse, but asked if I would actually ever wear the blazer. That was the most expensive part of the outfit. I promised that I would wear it a lot. She broke down and bought it for me. Once again, she was right. I wore the pants and blouse often, but probably only wore that blazer a couple of times. I still feel guilty about convincing her to buy that blazer for me.

Many years have passed since my school days. When my twins started pre-school, Lauren was excited to go. Evan (my baby by one minute) was terrified. He wanted to stay home with me. I knew from experience that if he stayed home, he would just have to face his fears the next day. I forced him to go. And it took many weeks before his teacher no longer had to pry him out of my arms when I dropped him off at preschool. After my dad died, Lauren had fears about going to school and being away from me. She wanted to stay home with me. Once again, I knew she would have to face her fears some time and I made her go. I admit that I shed a few tears after making them go to school. And I am willing to bet that Mother shed a few when she made me go to school on the second day of kindergarten.

As for those guilty feelings I still get about the pair of tights and the blazer, I bet Mother had forgotten about both of them shortly after they happened.  She'd probably tell me that it was her own fault for buying them. I bet that years from now, my own kids will confess guilt they feel over something they convinced me to buy for them. And I probably will have long forgotten it as well.

My Dog Obbles



Wobbles and me

For my first birthday my sister Kathy gave me a pull toy dog named Wobbles. He was brown with black plastic ears that would swing when you pulled him. He had a spring tail with a green ball at the tip and a little red plastic tongue that looked like he was ready to lick your face. He also sported a green collar, a red leash and big yellow wheels. Wobbles was made in such a way that when you pulled him he would wobble along, thus the name.

Since I was only one when I got Wobbles, I was just learning to talk. When I tried to say "Wobbles", it came out as "Obbles" (just like Wobbles but without the W). Over the years, my dog lost his red leash and his tongue. My speech got better and I was able to say, "Wobbles". But Daddy would forever call that dog Obbles. Apparently he thought it was cute when I was little and called it that. By the time I was done playing with the toy, I had nephews and nieces who wanted to play with it. He was given a fancy new leash so they could pull the dog along behind them. And my dad would always say, "Well there's Obbles!" By the time I was a teen, it was kind of embarrassing to hear the story of how Obbles got his name. But that didn't stop Daddy from telling it.



Obbles behind his chair at the farm

When my nieces and nephews would leave Grandma and Grandpa's house, Obbles was always placed in the same spot, behind a chair in the tv room. There he would patiently wait for the kids to pull him out to play the next time they visited. My own kids played with Obbles when we would visit the farm. They always knew where to find him. Over the years, Obbles survived me, my kids, and many nieces and nephews. The farm was his home.

After both of my parents died, I started thinking that maybe it was time to bring Obbles home with me. When my parents were still alive, Obbles belonged at the farm. I think every time they saw that dog, they remembered me as a one year old. It was almost as though I was leaving a bit of myself at the farm for them when I wasn't there. But once they were gone, it was time for Obbles to move in with his original owner. Eric teased me that I'd probably just throw Obbles behind a chair in our living room if I brought him to our house.

After one of our visits to the farm last fall, Obbles made the trip home to Maple Grove with us. My hope is that one day our future grandkids will play with Obbles when they visit our house. And you can be sure that I will proudly tell them the story of how Obbles got his name. Hearing that story used to embarrass me. Now I realize that when Daddy told that story, he was just trying to keep his little girl little for as long as he could.

Just as Mother and Daddy would look at Obbles in their house and remember me as a young child, I now see Obbles in our house and remember them. When I brought Obbles home, I brought a part of my childhood home with me. He has adjusted well in his new home. I decided to make the transition as easy as possible for him and put him behind a chair in our living room. I guess Eric was right. Except I didn't throw Obbles there, but rather set him there lovingly. I know Mother and Daddy would smile if they saw where I put him. And I can hear Daddy say, "Well, there's Obbles!"

Obbles in his new home: behind a chair in our living room

The Yonder Bridge

I had a dream about my Uncle Dale last night. It is the first dream I ever remember having about him, and he has been gone for more than 30 years. In my dream, we were all in the dining room at the farm and we heard the doorbell ring. This alone was strange because the farm house has no door bell. Maybe that is why in my dream, none of us got up to answer the door. A minute later, Dale was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. I ran to give him a hug and say how long it had been since I'd seen him. He didn't remember my name and called me Amy. I wasn't upset about it at all. I guess I figured that since he hadn't seen me in so long it was ok that he forgot my name. The most interesting part of the dream to me was that Dale looked like a much younger man than he was when I was a kid. He looked more like pictures I had seen of him when he was in the service when he was younger.

Dale lived with our family on the farm until a few years before he died. He never married and never had any kids. There are a couple of things I will never forget about Dale. He was always the one to milk the cows. He always wore bib overalls...and always the striped ones. More often than not, his hands were resting inside the the top of the overalls. He also made more noise yawning and stretching than anyone else I have ever known. His room was the first bedroom at the top of the steps and when he yawned and stretched, you literally would hear him wailing throughout the entire house! Another funny thing about him was how many Easter eggs he could put away. He would eat six of the them for breakfast each morning at Easter time. Of course that meant we got to dye tons of eggs, so we were happy. In his last years, he would go to Mackinaw Island in the summers and drive a team of horses to help people get around the island.

One of my favorite memories of Dale was when Mike and I would go for rides with him in his truck. I'm not sure why we went with him because he never took us to the root beer stand. We would always head across Ench Mile Road and then turn left. That would take us down a very curvy road into the valley. (This is the same valley that my dad liked to fish and trap in and later liked to just drive through to see the deer.) The rides in Dale's truck always seemed to take forever, and yet each time, Mike and I would be sure to go along. Whenever we asked where we were going or where some place was, Dale would always say, "Down yonder." Everything was "down yonder". Mike and I would laugh about that all the time. On this ride through the valley we would come to one very sharp turn in the narrow gravel road. As we made the turn, we went over a very rickety old bridge. In honor of Dale, Mike and I started calling this bridge "The Yonder Bridge".  I remember telling Eric about The Yonder Bridge when we'd take Daddy for rides in the valley years later. Of course, by that time, the bridge had been taken out and there was just a culvert running under the road. I tried calling it The Yonder Culvert, but it just didn't have the same ring to it as The Yonder Bridge. To this day, when we make that drive through the valley, I always anticipate getting to The Yonder Bridge and still think of Dale each and every time.

At the church we attend, a few times each year, there is a bluegrass band that plays our worship songs. My favorite is 'When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder'. I am not much of a singer, but even I can't help but join in when that song is played. When we found the old Victrola records in the farm attic, I found 'When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder' and brought it home with me. When I bought the Victrola at our church garage sale, I was finally able to hear the record. As you would expect, it is scratchy and sounds like something straight out of The Waltons. The Baldwin sisters probably would have danced to it after having a few sips of 'the recipe'. But that song makes me think of Dale and his "down yonder".

As the song goes, "When the roll is called up yonder, When the roll is called up yonder, When the roll is called up yon....der, When the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there." Yes, when the roll is called up yonder, I plan to be there.  And I bet I'll find Dale waiting for me at The Yonder Bridge.

July 8

Ninety-five years ago today, a woman rushed into the barn on a farm west of Caledonia, MN to let the farmer there know that he had a healthy newborn son. The woman was my great-grandma, Augusta Betz, who had just helped deliver her grandson. The farmer she went to give the good news to was my grandpa, Charlie Betz. And that healthy newborn boy, was my dad, Earl William Betz. The farm where this birth took place is now owned by the Banse family. The farm is about a mile away from the farm where I grew up many years later. My grandparents rented the farm where Earl was born back in 1917. Earl was the first of two boys born to Charlie and Clara Betz.

I'm not sure why my grandparents chose the name Earl. My dad came from a long line of Karl (Charlie) and Johann(es) Betz's. The name Earl means "noble" or "nobleman". One definition of noble means "born into the upper class". That certainly did not describe my dad. He was born into a family of humble farmers. But another definition of noble means "possessing high morals". That definitely fits the man that my dad was. He was honest, trustworthy, respectable, faithful and honorable. As for his middle name of William, I am only guessing, but am willing to bet that it was used to honor his mother's parents: William and Minnie (Wilhelmena) Zibrowski. The name William means protector. Earl William = Noble Protector. I'd say that my grandparents did a great job of choosing a fitting name for my dad.

Within a couple of years after my dad was born, his family moved from the farm where he was born to another farm. The new farm they rented was about a mile in the opposite direction of the farm I would later grow up on. My dad always referred to that farm as "The Hosch Place". He called it that because it was owned by the Hosch family. But when I was little I always thought he was calling it "The Hush Place". As a little girl, I had a Little Golden Book called Hush, Hush it's Sleepytime that I loved. I pictured all the sleepy animals in the book going to sleep at "The Hush Place".

I don't know a lot about my dad's youth. His brother, Dale was born in 1919 and they always farmed with my grandparents. My great grandma, Augusta, lived with them. They never had a lot growing up, but they worked hard and "got by". When my dad was in his late teens or early 20's, the Spellmeyer family asked my grandparents, Charlie and Clara Betz to buy their farm. The story that I heard was that the Spellmeyers wanted my grandparents (and my dad and uncle) to buy the farm because they knew what hard workers they were and knew they would take wonderful care of it. That farm they bought is the farm that I grew up on.

I've told the story of how my parents met, broke up and got back together again. For about the first year or so after Mother and Daddy were married, they lived in a house in Caledonia. They then moved out to the family farm with my grandparents and uncle. There were two kitchens in the house, separated only by a door. My mom had her kitchen and my grandma had hers. They each made their own meals. When my two oldest siblings, Kathy and David, were little, they would check out what my mom was cooking. If they didn't like it, they would push their highchairs through the door, out to Grandma's kitchen table and eat what she had cooked!

My parents raised all of us kids in that farm house. They were married for 63 years when my dad died. When I think of all the things that happened to Daddy over the years, it's a wonder that he lived to the age of 91. In fact, in his later years, I started to call him a cat, because he had escaped death enough times that it seemed that he must have nine lives.

On November 17, 1970 (when I was only 4 years old), Daddy suffered a stroke. My siblings have since told me that whenever the phone rang when Daddy was in the hospital, they were afraid to answer it because they thought it was my mom calling to say he had died. Some how he survived the stroke and came back home. His right hand was some what crippled after that and he always said that he felt "light-headed" for many, many years following the stroke. But it didn't stop him from farming. When I was in about 2nd grade, Daddy had a twisted intestine. He had to have a large portion of it removed. I can still picture the huge incision he had in his stomach. I remember my mom changing the bandages on it for months. Several years later, he had a tractor tip over on top of him. He was afraid to jump off as it was tipping. Two things saved him: the fact that he was so skinny and the fact that the old tractor had a springy seat. My brother, David, who saw the accident happen, wiggled the seat and Daddy inched his way out. He was black and blue from head to toe, but had no lasting injuries. Another time, Daddy was in the pen with some cattle. A young bull put his head under a steer or heifer and threw it into the air. As if came down, it grazed my dad's shoulder, throwing him to the ground. If it had come down inches closer to him, he would have been crushed.

There were many other health related scares my dad had over the years, but he always pulled through. Even when I got the call to hurry to the farm because he was dying, I half expected him to pull through yet again. So many times he'd been taken to the doctor feeling horrible. When the doctor would come into the room and ask how he was, Daddy's response would be, "Oh not so bad!"  That was probably his response when God asked him how he was when he arrived at Heaven's gate. "Oh, not so bad!"

There are a few things I will never forget about my dad:

He hated leftovers. He loved to dance jigs for his grandkids. He called my ghost shaped Halloween cookie an auger cookie. He would choose a molasses or peanut cookie over a chocolate chip cookie every time. He loved to go for car rides through the valley to see the deer. The way pronounced Houston County so it sounded like Who-ston County. The way he said crick instead of creek. His crooked signature after he had his stroke. The way he set up stakes and practiced parallel parking so he could pass his road test and not be restricted in how far from home he drove after his stroke. Him driving the H-tractor with the weed sprayer behind it. How he would tell me what bird was singing which song. The meadowlark was his favorite bird. His well worn bible. His old truck with the floorboards worn out. His pale green leisure suit. The way he'd laugh so hard he couldn't finish telling a story. His sweater. The way he said, "Evan is a good boy!" whenever Evan would get in trouble for being a stinker when he was little. Hearing him tell me, "I like you" a few days before he died. All the things he built in his workshop. The way he remembered the words to Come, Lord Jesus even when it was hard for him to say much any more. Him saying that it wouldn't be long until the snow was flying...even during the hottest days of summer. His bucket sun hats he wore in his later years. His "shit-kickers". His crooked stance as he got older. His "shitty grin". His love for his family.

I love and miss my "Noble Protector" Daddy, Earl William Betz. It was truly an honor to be his daughter.

Coffee

I first tried coffee when I was just a kid. I can still picture my pink melmac coffee cup filled mostly with milk and just a splash of coffee. But to me, I was drinking coffee. We had a percolator coffee pot just like the one pictured. We put 4 little scoops of coffee grounds in for a full pot of coffee. The sound of the coffee brewing in that coffee pot still echos in my mind and makes me smile. Mother and Daddy always had coffee with their breakfast and usually with dinner too. I still can see my dad's place at the table set for breakfast: a cup of coffee with a little cream, a bowl of pink grapefruit that my mom had scooped out for him, and 4 pieces of buttered toast, each cut in half horizontally. The only thing that changed was the type of fruit in the bowl. Depending on the season, it could be strawberries, peaches, or black caps. Daddy would stand in the washroom at the farm, cleaning up from morning chores as Mother tried to time the toast to be ready at the exact time Daddy was ready to sit down to eat.

As I got older, I gradually used more coffee and less milk in my cup. By college, I was drinking my coffee black. A cup or two every morning was a great way to start the day. More than that and the caffeine would make me jittery. I specifically remember limiting myself to one cup on my wedding day so I wouldn't be too hyper.

Over the years, Mother started using an automatic drip coffee maker instead of the percolator. And later still, coffee started to give Mother heartburn so she switched to a coffee alternative called Postum. That was eventually discontinued and she switched to drinking very weak instant coffee.

When Eric and I decided we were ready to have kids, I quit drinking coffee. I knew caffeine wasn't recommended when a woman was pregnant and by that point, it just made me jittery any way. I switched to herbal tea and drank that for years. Even after our kids were born and we knew we were done having more, I never went back to coffee.

Then Mother ended up in hospice. Without much sleep and the imminent loss looming, I was exhausted. One morning I walked to the family room in the hospice area and thought, "What the heck. I'll try a little coffee." I hadn't had even a sip of coffee in over 16 years. I poured just a tiny bit into a styrofoam cup and took a sip....yuck! How had I ever drank this stuff? I later found out that the coffee I tried was left over from the day before so it was a more than a little bitter. I remember talking to Eric on the phone later that day and telling him that I had tried coffee. He couldn't believe it. His family is a big coffee drinking family and they had never gotten used to me not drinking it. But it shocked Eric that after all these years I decided to try it again. I told him that everything changes when your mom is dying.

The next day when I knew the coffee in the family room was fresh, I tried it again and choked down a cup. After that, coffee started tasting good to me, and it became part of my morning routine again. Eric was still surprised to actually see me drink a cup though. Now he and I will sip on coffee while reading the morning newspaper together.

Sometimes it still seems strange to me that I am drinking coffee again, and other times it is hard to believe that I ever quit drinking it. But then again, sometimes it seems like just yesterday that Mother died and at other times it feels like it's been forever since I last saw her. 

Everything really does change when your mom dies. But it's kind of funny how just seeing a picture of that percolator took me back 40 years. I wonder if that coffee pot is still tucked away some where at the farm.