Sunday's Colt & Other Stories (14 page)

Aunt Liddie was again called upon to provide temporary care but she was not in the best of health herself. Grandpa decided to try to get someone younger. Bill Sunday suggested that perhaps one of Jed Groves's daughters might be willing to take the position. Grandpa wrote a letter to Groves and received a reply that the oldest daughter, June, would be willing to take care of Grandma.

On a cold November 12, 1916, I hitched Lightning to the buggy and set out for Great Bend to meet the train. I was waiting at the station the following day when the train was scheduled to arrive. I was more than a little concerned when Jenny stepped off the train. At first I thought both girls had made the trip from Grand Island and June was just slow. In the two years since I had seen Jenny, she had grown a foot and had certainly filled out in places that were not noticeable before. She was an attractive young woman. She recognized me immediately and approached with smiles and greetings. The explanation for the substitution was simple. A rash of marriages at the Groves' household left Jenny as the only alternative. June had decided at the last minute to elope with a teamster from York. Jane had been married the year before. Jenny reassured me that I didn't need to worry because she knew she could handle the job. She had been doing most of the heavy work around the Groves' place anyway. She could cook, sew, clean, shoot, do carpentry work, shoe horses, work teams in the fields, raise gardens, or anything else as well or better than either of her sisters. She was totally capable of handling any job and she was eager to work for wages. She spent the entire eight-hour ride back to the ranch persuading me.

Grandpa and Liddie were kind but concerned when we arrived. At a solidly built five-foot-nine inches, Jenny was certainly physically able to handle the work. It was just that they didn't know whether a sixteen-year-old was prepared for the challenges of caring for Grandma. Jenny's answer was simple. If they ever felt she couldn't handle the job, she would go home. Until then, she expected them to allow her the opportunity to prove herself. After all, they asked for the help and Jed had sent his last available daughter willingly.

After a brief consultation, Grandpa and Liddie agreed that they would give her a try. With that question settled, our life with Jenny began. She worked like a trooper and ran the house like a railroad yard foreman. She cared for Grandma, baked, cleaned, sewed, fixed meals, and monitored all household activities. She made suggestions for improvement of the farm, crops, gardens, livestock program, and certain poor male personal habits that Grandpa and I had developed. Rather than the quiet nights that Grandpa and I spent reading or just sitting, activities were now filled with conversation, new project proposals, teasing, and laughter. In the spring, a new trellis was built for rose vines, the house received a fresh coat of paint, the gardens were expanded, trees planted, the chicken flock expanded, and extra rows of sweet corn planted for caning. A new clothesline was installed and a place for muddy-boot storage assigned, all at Jenny's direction.

Old Bill Sunday was having a ball just keeping track of proceedings. More than once he reminded me of his prediction that she would make me walk the straight and narrow. Just as quickly I reminded him that I was not married to the girl and did not expect to be. Besides, she was too young. I was almost six years older—a vast age and maturity gap. We were also related. After all, her father was my grandpa's second cousin. I had my eye on a girl in Seward named Lucy Bowden. She was the daughter of a prosperous farmer and much sweeter.

But what I told Bill Sunday and thought to myself were two different stories. After being around Jenny, Lucy Bowden was boring. Jenny always had something to talk about. Lucy seemed dull-witted by comparison. Lucy was pretty, but Jenny was prettier and interesting to boot—although her constant defense of the Democrats and President Wilson didn't sit well in the house. After all, everyone knew that the greatest president that ever lived was Theodore Roosevelt. It was Roosevelt who carried the big stick and the Republican Party that provided high farm prices for the country by staying out of the war. All Wilson could talk about was income tax and international involvement. Other than that one shortcoming, I thought a great deal of Jenny. She was honest, forthright, hardworking, and dependable. Her personality was funny, clever, and outgoing.

It was Jenny's care of Grandma that most impressed me. Grandma's condition demanded almost constant attention. By mid-summer she was totally bed-ridden. Taking care of her was a staggering responsibility. In spite of Jenny's attentions, Grandma drifted ever deeper into a sea of darkness. By fall sores were developing on her back, and no matter what Jenny tried to do, they grew worse. The doctor diagnosed the sores as a cancer. He figured Grandma was full of it. Grandma lasted through the winter but passed on two days before Easter.

I was hitching a team in front of the barn when Grandpa walked from the house. He was sad, but he seemed to move more smoothly than he had in months. It seemed as though the burden he had been carrying had been lifted.

“Grandma's gone,” he stated bluntly.

In spite of the fact that I knew it was coming, I felt like a mule had kicked me in the stomach. I leaned forward and placed my head on the back of the mule I was hitching to the team. I was hurt that we had lost her, but relieved that she didn't have to suffer anymore.

“Don't let it affect you that way,” Grandpa said. “It's for the best. I know she's happier. That cancer was eating her up. She's got to be in a better place.”

“I know that. I'll just miss her.”

“She's been gone for some time, Andy. That wasn't her in that bed. It was just her body.”

He then turned away and went for a walk in the pasture. I believe he took Grandma with him for one last visit.

We buried Grandma in the Eden Valley Community Cemetery. One fellow counted over two hundred buggies and wagons in her funeral procession. We used Lightning to pull our buggy at Grandpa's insistence. The preacher gave a sermon about mothers and what the Bible teaches about them. He also stated that if the meek and good would inherit the earth, Nell Tate would be first in line for the rewards.

Although there were tears, my feelings weren't the same as they had been the day we had searched for Grandma when she wandered off. I had already said my good-byes long before.

Grandpa asked Jenny to stay on with us. He said the house would be lonely without her. I gave brief thought of approaching Grandpa about going off on my own, but decided against it. Jenny was the reason. She had become a good friend and a part of the family. Although we were friends, I didn't know how she would feel about the idea of courting. I finally found the opportunity when I learned of a dance to be held in Seward. I stewed over the decision the entire night before, mustering the courage. My problem was that I didn't know how to dance. I had never been on a dance floor in my life. If she accepted the invitation, I didn't know what she would do when we got there and all I could do was stand around stupidly and watch her dance with other guys.

We were eating our breakfast when I finally mustered the courage to ask. I blurted the invitation in the middle of the meal, totally changing the conversation. Both of them stared at me like they had been assaulted. I felt stupid and awkward. After her initial shock, Jenny smiled and nodded.

That Saturday night, I hitched Lightning to the buggy and drove it up to the house. I couldn't believe it when Jenny stepped from the porch door. She was wearing a fine purple dress. A matching purple hat made her look like one of those Gibson girls in the magazines. I helped her into the buggy and we set off to Seward.

We made small talk for a while before Jenny presented her confession. She didn't know how to dance. I immediately consoled her, confessing that I didn't know how to dance either.

“Then why are we going to a dance?” Jenny asked.

“Because I wanted to take you out,” I answered honestly. It seemed the best course of action.

“What are we going to do? Just stand around?”

“No, I thought we would dance.”

“How?”

“It can't be that difficult—certainly no worse than learning to ride a horse. I figured we'd learn together.”

A sudden gleam came to her eye. “Why not?”

I urged Lightning forward. All my fears vanished and I was eager to learn to dance with Jenny.

When we stepped into the hall—her in her fanciest purple dress and me in my store-bought suit—we saw everyone else dressed in work clothes, swinging their partners, do-si-do-ing, alman left-ing, and cutting up a storm.

I looked toward Jenny with a feeling of embarrassed wonderment. She only laughed and removed her hat.

“I'd a lot rather learn this kind of dancing, anyhow. Wouldn't you?”

“Sure would!” I slipped off my coat, loosened my tie, and led my partner to the dance floor. By the end of the evening we were old pros at the social art of square dancing.

As we made our way home, I stopped the buggy to allow Lightning a breather. There was only a quarter moon, but the stars filled the sky. Out there on the open prairie, under that canopy of stars, it felt like we were the only people in the world. We sat in silence for quite a while.

“Mama says she'd rather I waited until I was eighteen.”

“For what?”

“But, I'll be seventeen in February.”

“You will?”

“Sometimes you're the slowest person in the world. If I had to wait for you to ask me, I'd probably die an old maid!”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?”

My throat was so tight I thought I was going to choke. “Marry me.”

“Finally! Yes, Andy, I'll marry you.”

For several moments I didn't know what to do. I thought about urging Lightning forward. I wondered if I should say “thank you.” I considered jumping from the buggy and running for my life.

“I would think it would be all right for you to kiss me, if you wanted to,” she said softly.

That suggestion sounded like a reasonable alternative to any of my plans. So I did.

Grandpa was quite pleased when we informed him of our decision over breakfast the following morning. He asked us what we intended to do after we were married. Neither of us had given the matter much thought. He offered us a full partnership in the ranch, stating that there was more than enough work for all and that he was getting to an age where it wouldn't be long before he simply would not be able to handle the physical challenges of maintaining the place alone. He also surprised us with the news that he had already consulted my aunts and uncles about the partnership during Grandma's funeral. They had agreed and the family was waiting for Jenny and me to get on with it.

We were married at Eden Valley Community Church on Jenny's birthday, February 11, 1917. It was a small service with only close family and friends attending. Jenny's parents were unable to attend because of the distance, but insisted that we spend some time with them at our earliest convenience. Her mother also sent her wedding dress for the occasion. Our honeymoon consisted of a weekend trip to Great Bend. Lightning pulled the buggy. We returned to the ranch the following Monday. In those days there wasn't the luxury of long absences or vacations. Ranch chores and responsibilities made it impossible for us to be gone any longer. Livestock needed care and feeding during the winter. Calving season usually began the last week of February and we had several first-calf heifers demanding constant monitoring.

It was the third week of March when a spring blizzard roared in from the north. Heavy snow, accompanied by violent winds, began falling in the late afternoon. After a brief family conference concerning our options, Grandpa gathered stock into the barn stalls and I saddled Lightning to bring in the cattle and small calves into the corrals. Small calves, especially newborns, often suffocate in snowdrifts. It seemed a simple task, but none of us imagined the ferocity that this storm held. Grandpa insisted that I wear a heavy buffalo robe coat of his in case of trouble. That old coat weighed at least thirty pounds, but it could provide warmth in the worst of weather.

Before I reached the far end of the pastures a blinding onslaught of snow and wind engulfed me. I wrapped a bandana around my mouth and ears for added protection and pulled the heavy collar of the coat up to my neck.

I found a cow trying to give birth on the downwind side of a steep hill. She was down and the calf's badly swollen nose and tongue were exposed at the opening of the birth canal. There was no sign of the calf's front feet. I needed to help with the birth. I had to push the calf's head back into the birth canal and adjust the position of the feet. I dreaded removing my coat and rolling up my shirtsleeves in the midst of a blizzard, but there was nothing else to do if I wanted to save the cow.

The cow was already weak from straining and did not resist my efforts. I had to push the calf back in as far as my arm could reach, then locate the feet and start them through. I had to move fast because the placenta had already ruptured, exposing the calf's face, and the calf would drown within minutes. The problem with the maneuver was that the cow continued to strain and the pressure upon my arm was painful. It took patience to locate the feet and pull them into position, one leg at a time.

As snow pounded against my face and cold ripped through my chest and exposed left arm, I found the feet quickly and started them through. The calf's head had swollen so badly that I had to help with the birth by pulling on the calf. With feet still slick from birth fluid, it was difficult to pull the calf with bare hands. Once the feet were out, I slipped the noose of my lariat around them and tried to pull in time with the cow's straining. It was no use as there simply wasn't enough room left for the swollen head. After a few attempts, the calf came through. I cleaned the mouth of debris and fluids. He was a large bull calf but his tongue was so swollen that he couldn't breath. I spun him by his back legs in a circle to clear the breathing passage. He took a breath. I placed the calf beside his mother's head so she could recognize him.