Guest Author is my Daddy, written Dec 21, 1997 (submitted by my big sis)
The first time I saw Grannie’s kitchen, there was a fire in the black cook stove and something was boiling in a pot. As far as I remember, there was little furniture in the kitchen, just a stove and a cupboard, but the room it was in had six or seven chairs, a table, a bench and deer heads all over the wall. They were in the same room, but the kitchen was just the stove and the cupboard. And, oh yes, a dishpan on a low bench with a water bucket. And most important of all there was my grandmother. She was the same size as the stove and warm and had lots of hugging room and she cooked peedoes on top of the stove. They were sort of a batter bread with maybe some cornmeal in them and you ate them hot with some butter and also sugar.
The real part of the kitchen though was Grannie. She was a cook stove walking around and she made peedoes and we ate them like kittens waiting for a bowl of milk.
There was a well on the back porch, through the kitchen door. A bucket and rope were by the well, and the water was so clear you could hardly see it. When Grannie walked out on the porch to get water, it became part of the kitchen, too.
One time I saw a dead gopher in the well. He was not part of the kitchen and no one cooked him.
On the ride home, I had my nose pressed against the window in amazement. I could not believe that there were individual limbs and leaves on the trees. To me, trees were blobs like those painted by small children and many adults – you know – the kind that are green swirls and circles with a brown trunk and an occasional red apple. Sure, I had seen leaves on trees, at least when they were close up and right in front of my eyes, but how was I to know other trees really looked like that, too? When I got out of the car, I walked around the yard taking in everything I could. The brick walkway was not just one continuous slab, rather it was made of individual bricks. Wow!
I wasn’t sure what I looked like to those looking at me, but I was positive what the world looked like through my first pair of glasses. I don’t remember ever being told, “Go put your glasses on.” When I got a glimpse of how things looked through corrective lenses, I didn’t hesitate to wear them.
For several years, I wore glasses. Yes, people made fun of me and called me names like “four eyes.” One girl called me that and I punched her in the nose. Now they are fashionable. Then, there was only one style – cat eyes, clunky and not so attractive.
In my teenage years, I couldn’t wait to get contact lenses. I remember getting my first pair. I might even still have my first pair. Those kinds of lenses last a long time. The next pair was what was called “gas permeable (gas perm) contacts.” They were much more comfortable than the hard lenses. When soft lenses became available, I asked the eye doctor for a pair. He said, “Once you’ve worn gas perms, you won’t be satisfied with soft lenses. You have much clearer vision with gas perms.” He was right. I tossed the soft lenses and stayed with gas perms.
Old contacts
Then came the age of Lasix. I knew several people who had Lasix surgery to correct their vision. Did I have the nerve to try that? One day I decided I did. I went for an evaluation and found that I was not a candidate for that type of surgery, however, I had another option, Photorefractive keratectomy (aka PRK). The recovery time is longer, but PRK is considered safer and more effective in the long term. I signed up. The surgery was a success. Of course, I must have cheap readers for close up, but that’s okay.
In the course of life, sometimes things are not as they appear to be. We often assume too much according to our vision rather than the way it truly is. Try looking through someone else’s lenses. You might find that you’ve been missing something. I’d hate to think we’ve come this far and still can’t see the leaves for the trees —
In my journey tracing family history, I often come across intriguing individuals or families that transport me into a different era. So it is with the Osborne (aka Osbourne) family. It was through this line that I qualified for membership in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution).
I wonder what Sarah Wade Osborne thought and felt as her husband, George, and sons stepped onto the path that led to war. To have her husband and older sons enter into military service was one thing, but what about the young sons who joined at ages eleven and fourteen, as well as her other sons in between?
George Osborne was forty-two years of age when the Revolution broke out. The first military record for George and his sons, George Jr., and Thomas are found on a list in a company of Minutemen. Maybe their enthusiasm was driven by compelling love and responsibility to be ready at a minute’s notice to protect their families and towns. Minutemen were civilian colonists organized independently for militia campaigns. The men were chosen for their zeal, reliability and strength. They certainly did not lack in enthusiasm and readiness.
Azuba Osburn Brewer, great granddaughter of George Osborne, Sr
The night of April 18, 1775, Paul Revere, on a borrowed horse, began his midnight ride to alert the colonial militia of approaching British forces. The next morning George and his sons marched to war as other men emerged from their homes to join the ranks gathered to face the enemy. Soldiers and militia forces stood before the British army, and so began the battle of the revolution, with George Osborne and his two oldest sons by his side. Other sons of George and Sarah soon joined the fight. Seven of their eight sons served terms of various lengths throughout the war. Military documents record their places and times of service.
George, Jr. was twenty-one years of age at his first enlistment. He reentered the army in 1780 and served under two enlistments until the end of the war.
Thomas entered the army at age seventeen. He marched with his father on the alarm of Lexington and took part during the entire siege of Boston. Following that stint, he was under General Washington’s command in other battles. While in service on the armed vessel, the Protector, he was wounded, captured, and detained as a prisoner of war. After his release he enlisted on the frigate Deane where he joined some of his brothers. He was transferred to the Alliance and served until the ship went out of commission in March 1783.
Peleg was fourteen years of age when he began his military service in 1777 and served under three different enlistments. In 1781, he enlisted as a marine of the frigate Deane. He, too, was transferred to the Alliance. On December 25, 1781, the Alliance sailed for L’Orient, France, where the passengers Marquis de la Fayette and the Count de Noalles disembarked before the Alliance began its homeward journey. Peleg and his brother, William died at sea on the return trip in June of 1782.
William enlisted with his brothers Thomas, Hugh, John and Peleg on the frigate Deane in December 1781. He was transferred to the Alliance on which he died in June 1782.
Michael served with Colonel Nathan Tyler’s Regiment between July and December 1779. He served another short stint and later in Washington’s army. He was also on the frigate Deane between December 1781 and May 1782.
John was eleven years old when he began his military service. He enlisted as a “boy” and served three times in the navy, one of his tours of duty on the frigate Deane. He was wounded in battle and was listed as “lame.” How his mother’s heart must have hurt as she watched him march out the door of their home.
Hugh was thirteen years of age when he began his military career serving alongside his father in Captain Joseph Stetson’s company of Colonel Nicholas Dyke’s Regiment at Dorchester Heights in November of 1776. He marched again with his father from Pembroke to Bristol, RI. He had the opportunity to serve alongside his brothers at various times as well. While on the Deane, he served with Thomas, Peleg, John and William. Four of the brothers were transferred to the Alliance where Peleg and William died on board. At full stature, Hugh was only 5 feet 4 inches tall.
The Osborne family knew what it meant to sacrifice. They volunteered service to their country to claim freedom and were willing to do what was necessary to protect their families and communities.
Ezra Osborne, son of Hugh
Hugh is my 5thGreat Grandfather, George Osborne, Sr. is my 6thGreat Grandfather.
Living in a horse raising environment favored SOME OF Mother’s expressions. One day when she was “feeling her oats,” a hearing aid man asked her how old she was, she replied, “Look at my teeth.”
Mother in her more feeble days when she was approaching ninety: “Don’t help me. I’ll fall down by myself”
Are you surprised? Then say, “Holy Cow!”
Some words change in meaning when they are passed down from one generation to the next, take “gay” for instance. Once it was a twin to “gayety.” Even the most proper people could get together and have a gay old time.
“Whoopee” was word of great joy, a secular Hallelujah. “Making whoopee” is quite a different term. “Whoopee pants” referred to corduroy pants which made a “whoop, whoop, whoop” sound as you walked.
“Sneakers” were a soft soled tennis shoe that silenced your footsteps so you could sneak up on someone.
Little Sister Barbara, about three years old, held her own physically with a threat, “I’ll kick your slats in.” One time, when she was having a bad time, Daddy tried to comfort her. “Quit fussing and I’ll get you a pinto pony.” She, at three, replied, “Like so much mud you will.”
Ernest Parker used some colorful expressions. He may have picked some of them up while working on a Canadian Merchant ship that went to Japan and China. Others may have been from his early years in Kansas and at lumber camps in Washington State. He said, “By the Great Horn Spoon,” and “Jumped up Jehoshaphat.” A rare happening was “Once in a blue moon.” I’ve heard other old timers use that expression. I think that a blue moon occurred when there were two full moons in the same month.
My father used various quotes and misquotes from The Bible and from Shakespeare. “Blood, thunder, and sudden death” was one of his common sayings. “To horse, to horse,” called someone on a riding task. “Blood of the Lamb,” or “Red eye” might be used at the table if he wanted something red.
Sometimes someone was “just standing around with their teeth in their mouth.”
At one of the Brannin family gatherings, where they ate frijoles and yate, someone might ask, “Pot,(Pat) where are you going?” The answer would come back, “Watta my hoss, whatta you spose.”
A person needed to keep away from a snake with two legs.
In the West, one still hears, a goodly supply of “You bet” and “You betcha. ”
Working with the public for 36 years, I’ve met lots of folks from different walks of life. Living in the South in an area steeped with Civil War history, some of those I’ve crossed paths with boast of great Civil War heritage.
One such sweet Southern lady openly spoke of her love of history. Her Southern drawl was as thick and slow as honey dripping from a cold spoon, and as proper as neatly creased and folded white starched napkins. She was a short stocky lady with a walk that indicated she was someone of social standing in the local societies with which she associated. When I was considering pursuing DAR membership, I asked her about the requirements, and she referred me to someone who could assist me.
Shortly after, she came to my desk one day and told me all about her UDC chapter (that is United Daughters of the Confederacy). An invitation was extended to attend as her guest to their meeting with the intent of trying to get me to join to the UDC.
I looked at the kind Southern lady briefly and mustered up the courage to say, “Ma’am, I don’t think you want me at your meeting. My Civil War ancestors were Union soldiers.”
As she walked away, she didn’t look quite so starched and proper.
Some time later, I applied for membership in the DUV (Daughters of Union Veterans).
Caring for someone who is hard of hearing is always an adventure. Daddy and I had great conversations. We would have two different topics going at the same time. I would ask him a question and he would give an answer that had nothing to do with the question. It was never boring!
Among his various doctor’s appointments, his Audiologist was one of our favorites. She was a nice, attractive lady who loved Daddy and thought he was cute and sweet (they all did). I loved to hear them interact. She was always glad to see him, and he always made her day. When we left, she was always enlightened.
One day, I took him to get a quick fix. That is, I took him to get his ears adjusted. She hooked him up to some machines and asked him a question. He answered but she didn’t understand. Since she didn’t know what he said, she assumed he didn’t hear the question. I assured her that he heard what she said but his response was in Dutch.
As the exam continued, the Audiologist told Daddy she needed to send his hearing aids off for repairs and adjustments. She said, “In the meantime, I’ll give you one to wear.”
Daddy’s face lit up! He said, “Wonderwear?” I guess he thought he was getting some superhero leotards of some kind.
I said, “Daddy, she said, ‘One to Wear.’” We all looked at one each and had a good laugh.
Yep, he needed his hearing aids adjusted for sure!
Daddy was one of those preachers who visited his parishioners and others who lived in the community. One day he came home from visiting a man in the hospital with a tale to tell.
This particular man didn’t want to be in the hospital. He wasn’t very compliant with the hospital staff. While Daddy was there, one of the nurses came into the room to get the patient’s temperature. She stuck the thermometer under his tongue and said she’d be back shortly. He made no comment but as soon as she left, he looked over at daddy, grinned a bit, took the thermometer out of his mouth and stuck it in his hot coffee. Just before she walked in the room, he stuck it back under his tongue. Daddy laughed as he told about the nurse running around and calling for help for that poor man who had an astronomically high fever.
Whenever Daddy was in the hospital, the nurses all loved him. “He’s such a cute little man and he is so sweet.” Some of the nurses asked if they could take him home with them. One even said she wanted to put him in her pocket. One day, I questioned one of the nurses because Daddy had not had his scheduled therapy. She reported that when he was asked if he felt like doing therapy, he said, “I don’t think I can do it today.” The therapist said, “Awwww, that’s okay. We’ll try again tomorrow.” I took the nurse aside and said, “I just want you to know that cute, sweet little man is sometimes a liar. Don’t believe everything he tells you!”
On another occasion when Daddy was a patient in the hospital, I made my daily visit. He greeted me and smiled that smile that intimated, “I’ve been up to mischief today.” I questioned his look. He said, “I failed my first test.”
“What kind of test?”
“Well, the nurse asked me if I knew how to put my feet on the floor. I told her, ‘I just grab hold of the rail, twist around and swing my legs over the side of the bed and put my feet on the floor.’ She picked up the call button and said, ‘No, you push this button.’”
When I left him that day he said, “You might not find me better tomorrow, but you’ll certainly find the nurses more enlightened.”
I slapped the alarm a couple of times, threw back the covers, lifted my legs to gather up momentum and flung out of bed. The plan was to get ready and leave a few minutes early so I could dash into the store for a few things before going to work.
I gathered my stuff, walked down the hallway and turned to open the door. That’s when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It couldn’t be! The hallway was dim so maybe what I thought I saw wasn’t what I saw at all. I dared glance again and sure enough – that was a snake.
What? A snake! I stepped out of the house and closed the door quickly. Now, what was I to do? Ah ha! I called my son-in-law. “Hey, I need your assistance NOW! I’m in the garage. Get down here NOW!” I buzzed my husband and he didn’t answer. About that time my son-in-law pulled up. “What’s the matter?” “There’s a snake in my house.” “Where?” “In the hall.” “How did it get in the house?” “I don’t know, but I don’t want it there.” “Okay, come on.”
I opened the door and peeked in. “It’s gone. Wait, there’s its tail going in the bathroom.” On the way in, my son-in-law had grabbed a stick. He was trying to decide how to get the snake. He said, “What is it?” I’m pretty sure that’s not exactly what he meant. “It’s a snake and I don’t want it in my house.” He poked at it. I said, “Stop. I need to take a picture.” Soon the snake was curled around the stick and they were both headed out the door.
After a few more snaps with my phone, he carried the snake down the driveway. He didn’t like my suggestion as to what to do with the snake. The little slithery serpent fell off the stick and coiled up. I said, “Just leave it there. If it doesn’t move, I’ll just run over it on my way out the driveway.” How could he even suggest that my unwanted visitor should live? I waved my arms and hollered from the garage, “I can jump out of airplanes and swing from cliffs – but I don’t do snakes!
As the snake handler got ready to leave, he said, “I expected to find you had fallen and broke a leg or gotten cut and was bleeding or something.” My response was, “Do you think I’d call you for that?”
When I got in the car, it felt like beady little eyes were watching me from under the seat. What if there was something attached to those beady little eyes, waiting to curl around my ankles? One thing came to mind, “I should go in the house and put on my snake boots. Hmmm, maybe not – there might be another one of those slimy critters in the hall.”
If any of you need ophidian removal services, I might know a good snake handler and believe me, he’ll add a prayer.
I sent the picture to my husband and the wildlife management expert. It was identified as a Grey Rat Snake
Wide open country stretched for what seemed like eternity. Though the rolling hills and flat prairies seemed uninhabited, there was evidence of life. Trails wound up and over the rising and falling grassy slopes, skirting clumps of sagebrush and dipping into coulees that promised a drink of water. The trails did not magically appear but were lifelines carved into the land.
My mind took another trail following the footsteps of my dad into the mountains. I loved hiking or backpacking into the wilds with him because he knew where each rocky path led. Many of the trails that have stood the test of time were first forged by wild animals that dwelt in the mountains. Some were blazed by men and women seeking a route where few human footsteps had fallen. Each had its own story of where it had been, where it was going, and what it had seen.
I cannot even begin to remember every trail I followed through the woods or into the mountains. Many adventures were found along the way – paths though virgin forests and stands of ancient wooden sentinels, cow trails to abandoned homesteads, exploring and playing along lazy winding creeks and mountains streams rushing over rocky beds, high trails above steep shale cliffs, mossy boardwalks through rain forests, stone steps leading to jade colored pools, and hearing tales of times gone by. Some of the best pathways led to the home of friends or family where the door was always open and a cookie with a cold glass of milk awaited.
All trails lead somewhere. Even as time fades, beaten paths are threatened by years of neglect and roots of overgrown trees. Still bits and pieces exist. Faint markers and blazes half swallowed by tree bark are evidence of life that once passed that way.
Yes, trails lead somewhere – if nowhere else but to my memories.
What’s in a name? To some, “Mrs. Ward” meant a good neighbor who had earned the respect of her community. “Niter”, so called by her little Englishman, was a woman who could throw together a meal in no time for whoever showed up at her table at mealtime whether it was the hired men, family, friends, or someone there to purchase lumber. Some called her “Mama,” a lady who could box a kid’s ears or dunk a sassy mouth in a bucket of water. She could make the kids walk a fine line or play with them like a kid herself. “Babe” was a beloved girl at any age who was endeared to family and lifelong friends. That was the name by which she was known before she even got her “real” name which came from two of her nieces. To me she was and is “Gommie.”
Just the thought or mention of her name brings a plethora of emotions and memories. It meant curling up next to her on her sofa whether sitting quietly or being rewarded with a story. Her name meant lumpy gravy. It meant a cup of hot tea in a fine china teacup from her china cabinet. It meant a trip to her beloved mountains and a visit to her “cabin” and “Gommie’s Lake.” It meant a place of refuge, a place of safety, a peaceful place.
It meant a trip to see Uncle Barney and the guaranteed story of wolf trapping days. Uncle Barney, aged, deaf, with blurred vision, would transform before our very eyes as the years melted away. Once again he stood tall, young and fit as his eyes lit up at the retelling of the same stories we had heard before though we never tired of them.
Gommie was like a mama bear that dared anyone to mess with her kids and grandkids. Her compassions were stirred by the underdog and she would have taken any of them into her arms and her home. She was like a teddy bear, kind of soft and squishy, who offered a snuggly resting place. She sent money to help orphans and also helped meet the needs of those within her community. Her black dancing eyes could pierce a proud tongue or shoot darts to stop unnecessary words. Those same eyes, black and soft, could look in the very depths of the soul and warm the coldest of hearts.
She lived by the motto “is it true, is it kind, is it necessary.” A short poem says it well, “I have wept in the night for the shortness of sight that to someone’s need I was blind. But I have never once yet felt a twinge of regret for being a little too kind.”
Yes, a name contains many facets that reflect a prism of memories and a rainbow of emotions.
