Have you read this book by my second-favorite storyteller, Jean Shepherd? In God We Trust … All Others Pay Cash was the inspiration for the cult-favorite holiday flick A Christmas Story. Jean Shepherd, by the way, grew up in Indiana. And his father worked for the Borden Milk Company. Today’s story is from my favorite storyteller, though, who also grew up in Indiana. Farmer Gary tells this tale with a twinkle in his eye, as he was spared direct involvement…
Decades ago – before we were even engaged – I told Farmer Gary if I ever wrote a memoir, the title would be Kowzerout! We’d been dating for a few months, so Gary invited me to the farm for Sunday dinner. It felt like something out of a Laura Ingalls Wilder story, as his mom, Rita, put on a nice spread. After we finished dinner, Rita shooed us into the living room while she washed the dishes. (She refused my…
In addition to being a City Mouse / Country Mouse couple, Farmer Gary and I are also polar opposites when it comes to air temperature. “Is it cold in here?” I ask him from October to May. His reply is always a slight shrug and “it feels fine to me.” Well. The other day, I decided to press the issue. With my chilled foot hovering over a floor vent, I declared the air coming through was not in the least…
Farmer Gary‘s great-grandfather Anton Mehling was born on October 2, 1862. To be completely honest, my interest in Anton started with his wife. His second wife. And that incredible hat: They married on April 8, 1913. Anton had been a widower for three years; Minnie had lost her husband in 1912. Minnie’s maiden name was Philomena Pfaff (according to Gary, the first “f” is silent). She married Fred Tillman, who was born in Prussia but grew up in southern Indiana,…
Did you know when your ancestors came over from Germany, one brother settled in Iowa? Farmer Gary got a dreamy look on his face. “There’s really good farm land in Iowa.” For a minute I worried he was planning to load up the wagons and head westward. But Gary’s roots here in southern Indiana are deep. While Gary’s great-great grandfather Adam Werne Sr. immigrated to southern Indiana, his brother Peter headed to Dubuque with his young family. Peter and Margarett…
“Wait! Stop! What’s that?” Comedian Bert Kreischer was riding shotgun in my vehicle. He was shouting with excitement. We’d finished up another day of shooting with the reality-show host and it was time to cool off and go home. But Bert was still revved up. Most of the television personalities I’d dealt with over the years as a publicity liaison turned to stone as soon as the cameras were off. Not Bert Kreischer. He kept chatting, chuckling, and hooting with…
This is the story of Thomas Edward Regan. Sadly, I don’t know much about him, but I’ll share everything I’ve been able to piece together. We’ll start at the beginning: Thomas Edward Regan was born in New Haven, Connecticut, on June 27, 1946. He was his parents’ only child. He was born two months and a day after his namesake and grandfather died. Thomas Edward Regan was only 44 and had suffered from tuberculosis for years. Sadly, the grandson wasn’t…
Farmer Gary‘s great-grandmothers just can’t catch a break when it comes to obituaries. First it was Mary Wigger (she of the snuffly expiration) and now it’s Mary Werne’s turn. Excuse me, but did the local paper hire Dr. Seuss to write this headline? Mary Elisabeth Hedinger Werne passed away in her sleep on July 10, 1938. And according to the newspaper, it was a “gruesome sight” to confront. According to hand-typed notes Gary’s uncle Arch left us, although Mary was…
Oh, nature. You are testing me. That fox last month was one thing. But did he have to move his whole family here? Under the front porch? And, apparently, under the back deck as a playroom for the four – count ’em four – kits? The worst part is poor Yow-Yow Kitty has taken to patrolling from up on the rooftop of our house. A close second in the worst-part category is that the cute little kits like to roll…
This morning, between rowdy thunderstorms, I heard an odd sound. Gary and I were sitting together in our sunroom, gazing into our backyard, which – after all the recent rain – looks like a jungle. The noise was pitched high enough that Gary couldn’t hear it. Years of high-frequency milking machines will do that to you. It almost sounded like an alarm: two tones in fairly rapid succession and then silence. By late afternoon, I’d forgotten all about it. Then…