Some of you have read my recent published book, Bound by Secrecy. Those that have, know it was set in the Sandhills of Nebraska. The sequel, which I am working on, is also set in the Sandhills – this time revolving more around the small town of Hooper and less on the Reever’s ranch.

The Sandhills are a unique ground formation. They  compose the largest sand dunes in the Western Hemisphere. The Sandhills cover more than 20% of Nebraska. If you’ve never been there, you might picture in your mind hill after hill of white sand. But, although the ground below is sand, this sand is held in place and stabilized by a thick vegetation of grasses. Of the 720 different species of plants found in this region, 670 of them are native. (This gives me a whole new appreciation for those 4-H and FFA kids that study, know, and have judging contests on these hundreds of plant species.)

These luscious grasses make the Sandhills prime country for raising beef cattle. Nebraska is second, only to Texas, in the number of beef cattle that roam their states. There are over three times as many cattle in Nebraska as people. That figures to around 1.88 million head of beef cows and 20,000 beef cow operations in the state. Nebraska is the only state that is a national leader in every aspect of beef production, from cow/calf operations, corn growing, cattle feeding and then processing. A wide variety of products come from the processed cow. It’s not just meat, but leather, fishing line, biodegradable outboard motor oil, pet chew toys, and yes…even gummy candies.

Growing up on a ranch in the Sandhills, I didn’t give most of these facts and statistics a thought. I left the cattle business to Dad. What I was absorbed with were the wide open spaces where I could ride my horse. Ginger and I traveled up and over hills, in and out of plum thickets, and back and forth through river bottoms. We snuck up on imaginary Indians and conquered battles no one else could.  There were also those days when I didn’t need to pretend – when Dad needed real help to round up real cattle for branding or moving to other pastures. It was a life I wish everyone had the chance of experiencing.

I can read all of these statistics today and realize I grew up in a very special place. But, I knew that before I read the facts.

Keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin.’

 

What treasures do you find in a house that’s been occupied by the same couple for fifty years and who did not readily throw things away? And who determines what’s a treasure and what’s not? We found out this last week while engaged in Round 2 of emptying the folks’ house that us three siblings all have different ideas of what are treasures. We laughed  at our youngest sibling that went back through the trash bags and thrift boxes that us older two had filled.

When it came to picking out a few memorabilia items that each of us wanted to take home it seemed  easy enough because we all had different interests and memories. For one of his treasures, my brother Dave chose a very heavy antique tool box belonging to my great grandfather that neither Connie or I would have been able to lift had we wanted it. Dave knew the history of it and that it had sat under Dad’s work bench for fifty years; Connie and I had no idea.

I was mostly interested in some of the colorful, pretty dishes that Mom kept in her china closet. Many of these pieces belonged to my grandmothers and great grandmothers.  I could picture each piece stately sitting in the curio cabinet I don’t yet have.  My favorite piece of glassware however, was not fancy, but something we used every day. The “ears of corn” salt and pepper shakers that Mom and Dad received  for a wedding gift  now sit on top of my kitchen stove.

Connie had her eye on a beautiful flowered antique lamp that belonged to the great grandparents. With a creative eye, she also latched onto her great grandma’s rocking chair; broken and sitting askew. I don’t see it, but she is sure it will make a memorable quilt rack. She gave Dave and me explicit instructions not to throw away the one foot square mirror hanging by the sink in the basement. She recognized it as the same one in the childhood picture of Dad.

I took a stroll one afternoon out behind the shop. I lugged back two cream cans that brought back memories of Dad milking cows, Mom running the separator and  filling the cream cans to take to town to sell. The folks have told us since, that the money they got from the cream is what bought our gas money to make it the 30 miles to church on Sundays.  I thought about the radio that Dad always had going while he milked and of the cats that were always underfoot – hoping for a squirt of warm milk right from the teat.

Mom didn’t come out to the ranch house while we did our housecleaning, but she was involved no less. She would call us from “The Cottonwood” almost every night, asking if we had found this or that. And yes, Mom…we did find your doll you played with as a girl. (See below.)

As exhausting as the week was it also brought with it blessings. Many memories were hashed through – bringing smiles, laughs, and a gladness for the wonderful childhoods the three of us had.

 

 

 

 

Before I get to my main topic today, I want to tell you that this week you will not find an update to my “weekly tidbit”, “weekly photo”, or “book” pages. This is because I will be in NE, helping my siblings to clean out the folks’ house – round 2. (That means it is our second visit…not that we are in the ring.)  I can write my blog and save it as a draft to post  later, but I’m unable (or haven’t figured out how) to save the other pages to post at a future time. All pages will be updated the following week.

The skill of conversing seems to be taking a back seat to cell phones, I-pads, music devices, and some of those other gadgets I don’t even know the names of. I’m speaking to myself here as well. I’m a 60 plus year old cell phone junkie too. So much so, that I have to use discipline not to be obnoxiously tied to my phone. And to tell you the truth, I don’t do a very good job of it. For instance, I should stuff my phone underneath the heavy bath towels in the bathroom and close the door during meal times so I’m not tempted to answer the text tweets, but I don’t.  And I’m sure my husband wishes I would limit myself to  one turn of “Words with Friends” and “Trivia Crack” in the evenings, but I don’t do that either. My biggest concern is that we are loosing the skill of conversing. It seems some are just as happy playing on their gadgets than having a  conversation with the person sitting right beside them. (Sorry, dear.)  We loose a lot when we don’t talk with others. Anytime we have a conversation with someone, we are enlightened in some way. I decided this week to concentrate on being a better conversationalist and I started by looking at those I consider to be great at it. One of the best conversationalists I know is my friend Michele. I thought about her skill and what that entails. First of all, if face to face, she uses direct eye contact and her body language is warm and welcoming – as if I’m the only person on earth that day and she’s ready to listen. If we are sitting at a table, she leans forward towards me as if to say she can’t wait to hear the entire story. Once I start the story, she listens. If the conversation slows, she asks questions that I can’t answer with a simple “yes” or “no” and gets the momentum going again. Probably the best piece of “conversational advice” is something I heard from Dr. James Dobson on “Focus on the Family” over 25 years ago. I thought it was such a valuable piece of information that I taught it to my children as they were growing up. Dr. Dobson told his radio audience that having conversations was like playing catch with a ball. One person “throws out” the conversation as if throwing a ball to the other person. Then it’s that person’s responsibility to catch it, respond, and throw the conversation back with an open ended statement that keeps the ball going. And thus it goes…back and forth. I have often thought since, how this would be such a useful tool for speech and English teachers to be teaching their students. That way not only a few that had listened to Dr. Dobson would know the technique, but  everyone would know how to keep a conversation alive. How often have you been in a conversation with someone, who grunts and looks back to the game they are playing on their cell phone? Often we start a conversation, but it threatens to die. Combining general remarks with open ended questions will deter the dying process. For example, instead of just saying, “My, that’s a beautiful dress,” consider saying, “Wow, where did you get such a beautiful dress?” I like it when people use my name now and then when they are talking to me. It seems more personal and I get the feeling they care about me. A light touch to my shoulder can do the same thing. I certainly don’t always do all of these things I’ve mentioned above, but I am becoming more conscious of them and do try to incorporate many of the techniques into my conversations with people. We can’t change people, but we can work on ourselves. If you will keep on readin’, I’ll keep on writin’.

Old Business: I’m wondering if those of you that read my blog are also aware of the other pages on this website. I should have explained the site when I first developed it. Running horizontally across the top of the home page are other pages you can click on. Every week I change the weekly tidbit and the weekly photo and will also update you regularly  on “Bound by Secrecy” under the book tab. Remember though that to visualize any of these pages after clicking on the appropriate tab, you must scroll down – they won’t come up automatically.

New Business: Have you ever wondered what it would be like to fall asleep for an extended period of time – let’s say thirty-two years and then wake up? How would the world have changed? How would your family have changed? How would you have changed?

This is the story of Karolina Olsson, also known as the Sleeping Beauty of Okno, Sweeden.  In February of 1876, it’s been reported that Karolina hit her head on the ice, and within a few days developed a toothache. Her family thought the toothache was due to witchcraft (which was prominent in that area at the time) and they ordered her to go to bed. Little did they know that she would not awaken for more than three decades.

Her mother force fed her two glasses of sugar sweetened milk every day to keep her alive. The family reported that Karolina would occasionally sit up and mumble prayers she had learned earlier in her childhood. Some articles say she was also observed sleep walking at times.

Doctors were brought in to examine the fourteen year old. Some thought she was in a state of hibernation. Some thought she was pretending to sleep. Others labeled it as psychological problems. Some thought it was a form of hysteria or that she was in a comatose state.  But no one seemed to know for certainty what was going on with Karolina.

Various tests were performed on Karolina throughout the years. Pins were inserted into her fingertips and elicited no response from the woman. At the age of thirty-one she was treated with electroshock therapy. This likewise, elicited no response and she went home in the same condition she had arrived.

When her mother passed away and again when her brother passed three years later, she was said to have cried hysterically, although she remained asleep.

On April 3, 1908, at the age of forty-seven, Karolina woke up. She barely recognized herself as she looked in the mirror. The same went for her remaining family. She willingly went for a psychiatric evaluation and testing in Stockholm. Her mental faculties were intact just as they were before she fell asleep. Her responses were that of a fourteen year old however, not a forty-seven year old. Physically, the long sleep had slowed the aging process and Karolina looked like someone in her twenties; not her forties. It had been reported that during her sleep, her hair, fingernails, and toenails did not grow.

When she awoke she suffered from severe bedsores and malnutrition, but Karolina went on to live another forty one years; dying at the age of eighty-eight.

When I happened upon this story this week, I thought it one amazing story! I couldn’t help thinking how sad to have slept thirty plus years of your life away. It reminded me what a blessing each and every day is and that I never want to take one day for granted.

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

 

Dad has been gone now for almost a year and a half. Mom is living at the assisted living facility. The ranch house where they resided for fifty years sits by itself at the end of the road. It’s a lonely existence for a house that used to welcome the comings and goings of three children, their  parents, and at least one dog at all times. How many times a day did that old screen door squeak as one of us kids ran outside for who knows what? It might have been to hold the gate while Dad drove the tractor through, or to grab the “white clothes” off the line as Mom had ordered – someone was coming up the lane!  Maybe we just wanted to go for a horseback ride, or needed to gather the eggs before it got dark.

Now that house doesn’t even see Tiffany – the mail lady who delivers that route three days a week.  There’s no one to deliver to anymore at HC 65, Box 303. The melancholy house at the end of the trail must surely be envious of the good ole days.

This month has been different though. Us three siblings returned and filled the house again with chatter. This time, it is to clean out the belongings that have accumulated over fifty years. Not much had been disposed of in the past. Kitchen Klatter and Workbasket magazines from the 60’s (and even older) were uncovered. Wooden pickup sticks and metal jacks were found in the back corners of cupboards. In a crammed drawer, I found a yellowed postcard of sorts addressed to me from someone visiting Yellowstone Park. It has a small wooden bear attached to it and although I cannot find a date on it, it traveled for three cents. An old view finder  as well as Mom’s first cake decorator were both found in their original boxes; each complete with instructions. And so many pictures, pictures, pictures!

We learn things about our siblings and our parents when we are tending to this task. I did not know my father kept a version of a diary for at least the last 11 years of his life. He would write his entries in one of those calendar books he  got at a bull sale or as a Christmas give-away gift from the bank. Some of his entries were only one word, such as “blizzard” but then followed the next day with two words –  “getting serious.” Then there were days that required more words. August 22, 2006 had the following entry: Bad day, tractor trouble, sink trouble, Taylor’s dog ran over. Doctor’s appointments, important cattle details, and rainfall measurements dotted the pages throughout the books. Dad never learned to keep records on the computer, but as we found out – he did keep records.

Even though the task of cleaning out your parent’s home can be an exhausting and daunting experience, blessings are found along the way. The biggest blessing is yet to come. That lonely house at the end of the road is soon to be filled again with little footsteps and eager voices as my niece and her family move in. Tiffany will again be seen delivering the mail to HC 65, Box 303. The green stucco house will no longer have a need to be envious of the good ole days.