Shannanigans

The Church of Shanna

2009-09-15T23:21:00.006-05:00

Church, it was where I spent every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, sometimes Sunday afternoons, and Wednesday evenings--for good measure. Eventually, I attended school, in a church, oh, and college... Though that is a bit of a wee weird situation. I mean growing up Baptist and then attending a Catholic College.

For the most part, I hated church. Fortunately, we always had preachers who happened to come equipped with bibles and sons conveniently close to my age, First was Pastor Joe Brady and his sons Kurt (1st crush), Chris (later crushed on me--awkward). Then later in years (and after my heart was broken), came Pastor Turner and his sons Eric and Jason, most like brothers.

I remember the smell of the feed store across the street, sometimes the fragrance of corn would waft over in the hot summer breezes, and at other times, one could barely stand to be outside. The church I attended for the most part, growing up was the First Free Will Baptist Church, located in "North Town" in the small community of Fredericktown, Missouri. In the back of the church, there was the Jaycee softball field, we would run there by way of a path cut through layers of brush. Through which, I would often snag a Sunday dress. We also played cowboys and Indians in that thicket on Saturdays while mom was visiting the pastor's wife.

To say we found an occasion for trouble there on the lot of that establishment is a grave understatement. I could write a book of all the instances, but allow me to highlight a few of the more notable experiences. Probably one of the most awful, was the time that we stuck a cat into one of those huge pickle jars. I don't like cats, never have, I'll leave the remainder of this story to your imagination--0r lack thereof. Another instance involved myself, a London Fog windbreaker, a 6ft long black snake and the church soprano, Janet Dowd. The result was a hole in the pastor's study and a broken leg for our leading vocalist. She apparently didn't like snakes, my only plea was that we should love all god's creatures. I once hit a girl in the head with a baseball bat, resulting in 12 stitches. I later let her know I'd done this on purpose, as she clearly deserved it. Thus proving the theory "What comes around, goes around".

Other favorites were sitting around singing to the tunes playing on Eric Turner's turn-table record player. The kind that came in a case, closely resembling a suitcase. The thump of the needle and static from the built in speakers, paired with the belting out of "and somewhere in the darkness, the gambler he broke even, but in his final words I found an ace that I could keep"... Hardly an appropriate song for a preacher's son, some would say.

I played the organ first and then moved up to the piano for adult services. When I think of this, I smile, as it brings to mind one of my closest childhood friends, Donald Meyers. A Korean boy, with the typical bowl cut strait black hair, who came to church on the bus "religiously" every Sunday. Initially, he annoyed me with his continual yelling of songs during children's church services. I wanted to take that tie he always wore and tighten it around his neck. But then as we grew older, he calmed, we both studied piano and were quite competitive in our progress. Donald asked his parents repeatedly to come to church with him. I guess he was about 10 or 11, when they finally came. They would become one of the strongest family units in our church. I came to love Chi (his mom) as a second mother and her husband Richard, was a wonderful man. A veteran and postman, I can still see him looking all Norman Rockwell in his uniform, he just had that look about him. I spent a lot of time with them growing up. I would later travel to Chi's native homeland in Korea, but I could never remember any of the words she and her parents tried to teach me growing up. Her mother and father were the first truly foreign people I met, they could speak no English when they came to the US. Donald, by the way became a wonderful musician, he was the lead pianist in our church and I always took second to him, but I adored him and never minded so much, except for sometimes when he would show out or brag. Then, I wanted to take that tie he word and tighten it around his neck....

The Wild West

2009-01-27T00:19:00.004-06:00

I was five years old, the first time I actually traveled outside the state of Missouri. The whole family, Dad, Mom, Aunt Susan, her two, sis and I, packed up in the family car, and headed west to see my father's parents, Granny and Papa. I had missed them terribly, since they had moved.

Some of the sights we passed along the way, became landmarks that I would note for trips in years to come. Restaurants, and the huge Fort—somewhere between Kansas, and the Colorado/Nebraska Border. Note to self: ask Granny where that actually was... Things like the old oil drilling rigs. I remember pretending these were gigantic, prehistoric grasshoppers! I would duck down in the seat and cover my head with my pillow. If I sat up and there was one nearby, I had to duck quick-like, or I would be eaten alive! No kidding, it would break through the glass, come into the car, and pull me out by my arms or legs. Fortunately, I had a great sense of timing and never let one get close. I did make out a will, and had sewn it into my lion "Rufus". I took him everywhere, so if my body were found, then he would be able to tell them what to do with my remains, and to whom all my worldly goods had been bestowed.

Green River was the city that had called my grandparents away. There was no work in Missouri in 1975, and Papa had landed a position with FMC Corporation. At first sight, the city looked like a valley, devoid of all things living and green, with the exception of a few trees in the downtown area. Surrounded by mountains covered in prairie grass was a town that seemed no more than a host for huge rolling sage bundles, so brittle you could hear them crack as they rolled by. The town was separated from the rest of civilization by the infamous "Kissing Mountain". Kissing Mountain was actually two rocks, but one looked like an Indian crawling on the ground with a big nose. As you drove around a nearby curve, the Indian appeared to be kissing the mountain. I never bought off on it myself, but if I had a dollar for every time my Granny told me that story, I could have retired at age nine.

It was a shame really, that first trip. After stopping at Granny and Papa’s humble abode, we made a trail for Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It was during this first visit, to one of my favorite places on earth, that I learned one of the most valuable lessons in life. If you really want to be able to call it a vacation--leave the family behind! I cannot remember every detail, and thank god for that! I think every one argued on that day, sis was crying, I was planning an escape in a dressing room of a western wear store. If I had to make a run for it, I would probably set up my own branding operation, my choices were limited at age five, but if I could live until August, I’d be six then and could probably buy my own ranch, if I saved all my money. The typical vacation bickering would usually subside with a good meal, and a nights rest in a local hotel. There's something about those old hotels out west, the smell of the linens and soap, the bright neon sign standing proudly outside, usually with the word "Coral" thrown in there someplace. The bickering started again the moment the blizzard arrived, in July. No lie, we had to extend our visit due to all the snow! Well, it may have been June, but it was definitely summer, and we had no winter clothes!

Jackson Hole, was a wondrous place back then, with a Silver Dollar Bar, that would later become famous when a monkey played dead, somewhere in the vicinity. There was the "Bunnery" and the old Wort Hotel, with red place mats with a map of Jackson. I started collecting those, each with the glass ring stamped proudly in one corner. Crab legs at the Mangy Moose. There were hikes around Jenny Lake, hours spent gazing at the Tetons--another story my grandmother INSISTED on telling me each trip, and one I hated hearing, as it entailed a graphic description of a woman's breast.

All my grade school years were spent looking forward to one day in spring, when Granny and Papa would pull up the day after school let out and sometimes well before, and I would be waiting with my bags packed (sometimes for days, sometimes longer), barely able to allow them time to visit with the rest of the family. Then we would pack up and drive back to Green River. We had adventures along the way. Granny was an antiques fanatic, and we had a sprinkling of favorite stops from Kansas City to the Wyoming Border. Some of our purchases included an old Iron Bed, a Pie Safe, an old steamer trunk, that I renovated myself. Papa lined it with cedar, and it's currently pretending to be a coffee table, in my sitting room. I eventually tired of playing "attack of the giant grasshopper" and used that energy hitting the rewind button on my mini cassette player, complete with headset.

Granny went to work in the hospital over in Rock Springs. She worked evenings from 2 pm to midnight. She would come home ranting and raving about the doctors, there was the time she had taken a bag full of marijuana (whatever that was) away from one of the members of Hells Angels. It usually took her a few hours to settle down after the duty day and she usually came home and cooked something for me to eat for a late night snack. Sometimes a Sopapia, sometimes a bacon sandwich.

Our yearly trips still included Jackson Hole. There was the time I was hiking around the lake with my backpack. I stopped along the way to eat a Reece’s cup. I must have been trying to make adjustments, or drink something from my thermos, when I heard a nearby rustle of paper. I had just laid my paper cup and wrapper right next to me, but it was missing, and then not missing. I found it, IN A MOOSE'S MOUTH! He was just standing, right beside me. Eating the paper. The really bad news is that my no-nonsense Granny, perturbed to see me running, screaming help, arms flailing, made me go back, and pick up the remains of my trash. But not without a swift hand to my bottom. Must have scared Mr. Moose pretty good, as there were only remaining bits of paper left behind.

Other favorites were camping trips, shopping at Trolley Square in Salt Lake City, going to feed wild horses in the mountains. On one particular trip, I recall being trapped on the side of a mountain in the old Scout II. It was a one lane old dirt road with no shoulder, in some places the road was washed out and there was barely a lane at all. We had just come around a bend when we ran into a local ranch, driving several hundred long horn steers, fighting us for the lane. There was no place for us to go, no place for the steers. Some climbed over each other and were on top of the Scout, others were rolling half way down the mountain. It was a frightening experience; I can still feel the terror in the pit of my stomach to this day.

The west, as experienced with Granny and Papa would remain this way until my last trail had been blazed in September of 2001. We didn't make it all the way to Jackson Hole, by this time, they had retired back to their home in Missouri in the Mid 80's, then after a few years, they built a cabin at Rafter J Ranch in Jackson Hole in the late 80's. By the mid 90's they were back in Missouri, buying back the home they had built in 1960-something and had sold not even ten years prior. We thought they would never settle down. My Aunt moved out west with her family in 1976 or 77 and has remained in the Colorado area. I will travel the world over, but my first love will always be the Mountains of the Wild West, as I knew it back then.

Snowy Sentiments

2009-01-14T02:19:00.007-06:00

Some of my most favorite memories involve a white, powdery substance called snow. I LOVE snow! I can think of 100 reasons to like it, at the very least. I recall many a great snow, while living on the farm. I believe the worst of it hit in 1977--give or take a year. It was one of my most memorable, as apart from all the snow and missed school days, my dog, Star, a chocolate Labrador, had her one and only litter of pups. During these white-outs I had ample opportunity to live out my frontier dreams. No electricity, no running water, what a delight! It was just like Little House, only our home was heated by wood heat from a wood stove sitting on a beautiful hearth.

Each year, I received a new pair of rubber boots, and pair of ski pants--usually accompanied by a matching coat. We had an old pill bottle, full of some form of grease my father got from work. It smelled terribly, yet we would salve up our tennis shoes (full of 6 layers of sock), then proceed to push and pull on the boots. I would bowl out of the house and into an amazingly beautiful winter wonderland. If there were more than a few feet of snowfall, I would build a snow fort in the front yard. In all actuality, it was more or less paths shoveled out to form the walls, but it worked nicely. If the snow were just right I would build a snow family.

I had, over the years, developed a bit of a schedule (pronounced swedzule), for my outdoor playtime in snow; I had to fit it all in, for one never knew exactly how much time you had before it all melted away! I was usually accompanied by 'lil sis, who typically tired and went in after the first hour or two. I eventually wondered out of the yard and on to other adventures. Occasionally, I would go down to the chicken house, for many years it was unoccupied, and so I "rented" it out as my "winter home". As soon as I stepped through the front door (which was barely on hinges) I set to work cleaning up. "Why, oh why, did the servants never pull their share of the weight", they knew I had more important things to do, such as prepare the Christmas tree for the coming guests. I used cut wood as chairs, or a chaise for my sitting room, and a really big wood block for a table. Eventually, I grew tired of being mistress of such a large estate, so I would pack up and travel north. In the upper field were enemies of a foreign war. Easy to spot they were, in their red coats standing around, heaving great puffs of smoke up into the air from their huge nostrils. I would go deep into the wood, generally admiring the snow covered cedars and pine, and the quiet. There is something about snow that makes quiet an actual sound. Once out of sight from the house on the hill, I cut around and over; hidden away, a safe distance into the tree line, sneaking off to the creek I'd go.

Our creek ran the length of the property, and I always thought it was the greatest of all adventures. There was an area that was perfect for play, rather shallow, it froze solid and more quickly than other areas. I would ice skate, ever so gracefully, transformed in a beautiful beaded leotard with matching skirt, my hair neatly pinned up, and scores of adoring fans watching. They would applaud and then I would hear someone from the crowd calling me to dinner. Then it was off through the battle field--I had to be mindful of the mines and avoid being seen or heard by the enemy, else they would come running across the field, looking for their evening feed. I sometimes met dad on the way and he would yell after me to get on home and stay out of the creek. How did he always know?

I've already told you (in previous post), we had the best sledding hill in seven counties. Our cow "Jerse" thought so too. She loved to sled. That's right, our cow loved to ride the sled. She was out there, hardly able to contain her excitement, and not willing to wait in line for her turn. Scared the living daylights out of friends, who had shown up to sled on our famously fun hill. Imagine, a huge milk cow barreling down a hill after you, then trying to jump on the sled--it was a sight!

Here's to hoping I make it home in time this winter for yet another great memory, and one more ride down that amazing hill on that old red sled.

Take good care!

A Month of Summer

2009-01-06T01:37:00.014-06:00

Before I started my first year of school, I recall thinking that summer was the longest month of the entire year. Of course, it was not actually a month, but a season.

There were many great things that summer could bring to a little girl on a farm. Among them were brightly colored popsicles. Re-runs on TV. Home-made ice cream. Softball after church on Sundays. The return of a beloved Aunt who taught American History during the school year, and shared her summers and some holidays with us in the country. She would stay with my grandparents in the home where my mother was born. It was actually in town, but this not being St Louis, was still "the country".

I loved the smell of all the papers she brought with her, they were ran on one of those ditto machines, and were usually stacked in shopping bags from Famous Barr. She always brought my sister and I a book, usually about history which was fine with me. I loved to spend summer nights at the grandparents while she was there. The old house was right in the middle of town, and because of the location, I considered it a great treat. I liked sleeping upstairs in a twin bed my grand-dad made. On a nearby dresser was the jewelry box my Aunt had brought back from visiting my uncle Don on Guam. It was a ritual, I would head strait up the moment my Aunt started going in and taking off her "face" and putting on the tons of beauty products she slathered on nightly. It gave me just enough time to take the box down and trace all the pearl inlay on the top of the box with my tanned pointer finger. After it was back in it's spot, I would fall asleep as I lay listening to the hum of cars passing under the nearby open window. A sound I never heard on the farm.

While my aunts arrival was a significant event, summer didn't officially begin until my father's garden had green growing everywhere. I loved my father's garden, the smell of the freshly turned soil and sometimes fuel from the tractor. He still gardens in that very spot today! Somewhere there is a Kodak slide of me, about age 3 or 4, hand drawn back, with a rotten tomato. Word has it, I hit him square in the face. I must have, as I vividly recall the royal butt-whoopin' I got as a reward.

Another significant summer my uncle Don (mom's brother) and aunt Pat were arriving with my cousins, Pam and Debbie from Florida. I could barely wait for them to arrive, it was a fun filled week with this bunch around. Usually an evening or two at my grandparents. The cousins would run around a rather big hill in my grandparents back yard, which housed a storm cellar. These were jolly times, lots of slamming of the back porch screen door. Parents yelling after kids. Hide and seek. RC cola to drink and lots of food!

I can recall the summer I was four, the entire family (mom's side) came to the farm--now would be a good time to tell you that my mother was the youngest of seven children. The cousins and I ran all over the place, went to the barn to see the baby calf, chased the dog, played with sticks. It was a perfect day with a perfect ending--the moment the sun hit the western horizon, a firefly fury began. I was so excited to learn that very night, the art of making lovely amber colored rings from the fireflies--I'll spare you the details. The sky was clear and full of stars, the grass was freshly cut. There had been a cookout and the scent of charcoal was still making it's way through the thick night air. At some point, we all wound up on the grass, gazing up at a star-filled sky through the branches of the big walnut tree. A concert was held in our honor, gratis, a symphony of crickets in the fields, croaking frogs in the creek, and occasional cresendo of the whip-por-will. For the rest of my life, I will remember lying there, relaxing after a long day of running and screaming, belly full of watermelon, my family all around, and the feeling that nothing in life was better than that!

In later years, summer's for me were not all spent in beautiful southeastern Missouri, but that's another story.

Take good care.

Green Acres

2008-12-29T23:43:00.019-06:00

I only lived there part-time as a child, late summer and through early spring. In, Southeastern Missouri, there is a place, where two large hills are connected by a deep valley. The perfect sledding experience with a good snow! In spring, the grass is short, soft and the most amazing green, fed by springs running here and there. The house is not much, it had been built by my great grandfather (old grandpa), Aaron Vaughn, married to his wife Rosie, the later whom I never knew. My father and "Grand-daddy" (mom's dad), renovated the old place before we all moved in, I was but a sprout (age 2). Photo features great grandparents Vaughn on the farm when they lived there.

From the front porch you can look directly across and over to the other hill, my first sight was usually the persimmon tree, then at the crest a corn crib leans dutifully, and just over a bit to the right, dead center in front of an enormous barn, still stands the most beautiful oak. Underneath the oak, was old grandpa's wagon (was, as it is now reduced to the skeletal spokes and sawdust). I could imagine, plain as day, that wagon returning from a trip to town, filled with lumber and dry goods.

My favorite time was fall (and yet is), when the old oak would turn the color of caramel. I loved to gather acorns and climb up in the wagon, and sit a spell, usually pretending to drive it. I longed for a horse, my father had a picture of him as a boy, on a horse with old grandpa standing nearby. I always thought that I should have had one as well, and so I begged every birthday, holiday, and many days in between. I think I was close on several occasions, but father was a bit more practical, and felt piglets and calves should suffice. Though I still contend they are no replacement for a horse!

I love that farm, and I'm thankful to have had the opportunity to have grown up in such a lovely place.

Take good care.