THREE DEGREES AND A BABY
Kathryn's Art-Booth at Yankee Peddler Festival, Canal Fulton, Ohio
We spent over three years in Athens, where Al finished his bachelor’s degree. He was then admitted to a master’s program in history at O.U. with a stipend and fee waiver. I continued at the Physics Department, happy and thriving. The last year we lived in Athens, we sold the trailer and moved to a bigger apartment when I became pregnant with our only child. I worked up until my due date, which was in mid-September, then sat at home waiting for the baby to make its move. A month later, my doctor put me in the hospital and delivered an almost ten-pound baby boy we named Marc by cesarian section. But, of course, that’s a hair-raising story for another day.
Al was called to serve in the US Army at Fort Hood in Texas as required by his ROTC commitment. The war in Vietnam was winding down, and they only needed him for a six-month tour of duty; then, he’d be a Captain in the Army Reserves. We had a great time investigating El Paso, a new climate and a new culture. On the side, Al applied for a Ph.D. program in history at KSU in Kent, Ohio, and was accepted with a small stipend and a fee waiver.
When we moved to a cute bungalow house, a rental just outside Kent, our baby was fourteen months old. I was still nursing Marc and did so for a little bit longer. I needed a job where I could work in the evenings, so Al could watch the baby when I was away. I found one just across the road at the Kent Country Club, first as a waitress and then as a bartender. The tips and salary came in handy because Al’s stipend was not enough for us to live on.
When Marc was almost three years old, we struggled to make ends meet, especially in the summers when Al did not receive his stipend. So I applied for a job at the Graduate School of Education at Kent State. With excellent references from the Physics Department at O.U., I was hired as a supervisor in the Graduate Admissions office. With a young child to worry about and our health a factor, having medical insurance was imperative. Another benefit was that I could take classes free of charge.
Once again, I excelled in my job, and the Chairman of the College of Education gave me a certificate commending me for my administrative skills and attention to detail. In time, he promoted me to the Director of Graduate Admissions in the College. I was the first female non-academic administrator at Kent State, and very proud of that fact.
For a while, Marc had a rough time in his first experience away from home. We’d moved to a less expensive student apartment near his daycare center, my office, and Al’s classes. Al picked him up at three in the afternoon and cared for him until I returned around five. I had no choice, but it was still hard to hear that Marc had cried or was upset during the day at the center. Such is the life of a mother with a toddler and a full-time job. Every free minute I had with him, we did fun things together, read scores of books, took adventurous outings, and discovered the new world where we now lived. Eventually, he adjusted, but it wasn’t easy for any of us.
*
A DOG ON THE ROAD
My husband will always be one of the other people (TOP). He is hard-working, honest, smart, and almost always in charge of his emotions. Being married to a HOSP like me isn’t easy, but it takes a strong mate to be married to a HOSP who is also a Guardian of the Road. We are not easy people to live with sometimes, but I believe worth the effort. Sadly, some of us suffer in friendships and marriages for lack of understanding. After decades of marriage, Al has accepted that I am a HOSP and a GOTR. However, it took him years to understand and accept my hypersensitivity.
Until I married, I had little experience driving a car any distance by myself. Then, one day, not far from our apartment in Kent, a black Labrador Retriever rushed out in front of my car. It happened so fast that I could not stop in time to avoid hitting him. The dog howled in pain and ran off. I was horrified. How could I hurt an animal, even accidentally? I pulled over to the side of the road and watched as the Lab limped off into the woods. It was drizzling, but I got out and followed him. I intended to see if he was hurt and, if necessary, take him to a veterinarian. But, instead, I could see him far ahead of me as his red collar stood out; he was stumbling deeper into the thick brush of the woods. I tried to catch up to him in the rain for almost an hour. Finally, he was out of sight, and I had to give up the search. I walked back to the car and climbed in. By then, I was crying.
For the next few days, I searched for him without success. Then, a couple of months later, I was driving down the same road, and what looked like a similar Labrador was sitting on the edge of the berm. An older man was holding a leash hooked up to the dog. I pulled ahead, then walked back to where they were standing. Once I spotted the red collar, I was certain he was the same dog I’d hit. I introduced myself, then told the man what I had accidentally done.
The old man affectionately rubbed the dog’s head and smiled down at him. Then he told me his dog’s name was Cooper, and he’d come home one day injured. He rushed him to the animal hospital, fearing the worse. But, instead, the X-rays showed the dog had broken a small bone in his foreleg. After wearing a splint for several weeks, the vet removed it and declared the dog was good as new. Now, he was glad to report that Cooper could run again like the crazy mutt he was and no worse for wear.
At the time, my husband and I were living check to check. We had no savings, but I still offered to pay some of the veterinary bills on time if he agreed. The old man politely refused my offer. He was just glad his dog was alive and running again. I kept pushing to pay something toward his recovery, but I could see the gentleman was becoming annoyed. Finally, he said it was his fault the dog had not been tied down, on a leash, or behind his fence, and not mine. He smiled again and then asked that I not worry about it anymore. However, he also revealed that he would never forget the Good Samaritan that tried to help his only companion. Little did he know that I was a Guardian of the Road, and I had to do what I did. I had no other choice.
*
CHICKENS ON THE INTERSTATE
Sometimes, my office at Kent State sent me on recruiting trips to colleges in the area. One morning, I was going to a group presentation in our first new car, a tiny blue Datsun. Unfortunately, the road I’d chosen was a six-lane interstate near Akron, Ohio, and I was in morning traffic. To this day, I have never gotten used to heavy traffic and actually hate it with a passion. So I stayed in the right lane, going slower than the other vehicles and gripping the steering wheel.
Glancing ahead, I unexpectedly saw two chickens between east and westbound traffic in the middle of the median. They looked, as you might guess, frightened. They also looked filthy. Every other second it seemed, one of them would start to dart out onto the road, then turn back just in time. I feared they would get struck by a car unless someone came to their aid. But, alas, I also felt compelled to help them, so I had to pull over and rescue those two dirty birds.
My first obstacle was crossing the three lanes of fast-moving traffic on foot. You may think capturing two chickens in the middle of the median is easy, but it wasn’t. I had to run after them, one at a time. I quickly named one Sally and the other female Pat. I rescued Pat easily. I grabbed her two feet and carried her upside down. I had on the only suit I owned and could see she’d pooped on the skirt. Pat flapped and flapped, trying to get away, but I opened my car door and gently tossed her inside. Racing across three lanes of traffic with Pat hanging upside down must have been a sight for the early-morning traveler. Once I saw her safe inside the car, I returned to capture Sally.
Sally was stubborn, no, let me rephrase that… Sally was a bitch. As I attempted to catch her, she came awfully close to being one flat chicken. Finally, I trapped her near a cement guardrail and grabbed her by her feet. She screamed bloody murder, all while I dodged vehicles on the interstate, trying to get back to my car. As we made our way, she kept pecking whatever she could reach, mostly my legs. I wore hose, but they turned into torn shreds after her attacks. I honestly don’t know why she didn’t appreciate that I saved her life, but she didn’t. Once in the car, all three of us were close together in my small car. I was sitting in the front seat, and Pat and Sally were frantically flapping around and pooping on the back seat. I figured Al would be really angry when he saw all the chicken poop in the new car. However, I had other things to worry about at that moment.
I wondered what I would do with two chickens, ruining my new car and turning the back seat into a barnyard. It was a problem I had no solution for, and I was getting desperate. I kept trying to think... did I know any chicken farmers or people who kept chickens? I was at a complete loss. I did not know what to do with those two lucky birds. Then it came to me. I’d met a woman who owned a small farm outside of Kent, the mother of a good friend of mine. I’d been to her farmhouse once and knew exactly where it was. So I turned the car around at the next exit and headed back toward Kent. Driving with two squawking chickens in the car was challenging, but I was doing all right until I looked into the rearview mirror.
Behind me was a highway patrol car with its blue lights flashing. The patrolman who sat at the wheel wore scary blue and silver sunglasses. Studying him in the rearview mirror, I thought he looked mad. Yes, a highway patrol officer was pulling me over. I carefully drove to the side of the road and stopped. I tried to get my thoughts together as he approached my car: how would I explain what had just happened? I rolled down the window slightly, fearing Pat and Sally would escape. At first, the patrolman was stern. He said I was driving erratically and wondered if I’d been drinking. It only took a few seconds for him to realize my situation since Sally and Pat were shrieking at him through the window. All I can say is that he was at least a PWAOS (people who are often sensitive) for recognizing my dire straits. Although I did take the time to tell him about the rescue in the median, I also told him I was on my way to a farm where I planned on giving a friend of mine(?) the two birds in the back seat. He asked me for the farm's address, and I gave it to him. I heard him chuckling as he got into his vehicle.
The highway patrolman drove in front of my Datsun with his lights flashing and escorted Pat, Sally, and me almost all the way to the farm. The woman I offered the hens to was initially unconvinced. Her name was Jane, and she said she did have a couple of chickens but didn’t want any more. She was a tough old bird herself, I quickly realized. Then Jane leaned close to the window and studied the two fat hens carrying on in the back seat. Ultimately, she took Pat and Sally, and I believe she gave them a good home. I did not want to know what eventually happened to them, but at least it was not bloody murder on a six-lane interstate.
I was returning home when I remembered the last time I’d seen her. Jane and her daughter Teresa’s story is coming up. It’s called Teresa Baker’s Homemade Cinnamon Rolls.
Everyone believed me when I called my office and explained what had happened, but I could hear them laughing in the background.
Once at home, I cleaned all evidence of the chicken rescues in the Datson and sprayed the inside with room freshener so Al would never know what I’d done. He figured it out anyway; he’s a smart man and knew me too well.
*
TEACHING A CITY BOY HOW TO FISH
After Al finished his Ph.D. program, he couldn’t find a university teaching position anywhere since college jobs in history evaporated nationwide. So, on a whim, he applied for a job with the federal government without any other good options. After tests and interviews, the hiring officials offered him a professional job in Akron, Ohio, near Kent. We were beyond happy and very relieved. He’d have a good career in the government, great benefits, and eventually a substantial salary, perhaps for the rest of his working career. Throughout that career, we’ve moved many times to different cities in Ohio, either when Al received a promotion or when I was recruited for a new job. To date, we have bought and sold eight homes.
We bought our first house in Kent to celebrate Al's new job. It was a cute bungalow built in the late l930s, walking distance to Marc’s elementary school and close to my office at Kent State University. My parents helped with the downpayment, and we lived there for about six years. The bungalow had an enclosed 360-degree staircase that rose up through the center of the house to a vast room on the third level. The secret room, as we called it, was perfect for a kid who, like his mother, was a dreamer, reader, animal lover, and a HOSP. Everything in the room was built-in, from beds to dressers to bookshelves and hide-e-holes under the eaves.
Our son, Marc, is brilliant and a history lover like his father. However, he despised school and preferred reading in the secret room as often as possible. It was sometimes hard to get him downstairs. I once was surprised to discover 800 ( I counted them) empty cicada shells in one of his built-in dresser drawers. Marc was not a kid who liked outdoor activities; he didn’t ride a bike, didn’t join clubs at school, did not play an instrument, and wasn’t that interested in playing sports initially. He preferred to read books well beyond his age level with his beloved cat Bootsie on his lap. One evening, I found him reading the 400-page autobiography of Ulysses S. Grant, who commanded the Union army during the Civil War. At the time, I believe Marc was eight years old. I decided to see if I could get him interested in an outdoor hobby I loved when I was his age: fishing.
I went to Sears one Saturday in the spring and bought an inexpensive casting rod and reel, bobbers, hooks, lines, and sinkers. I also picked up a small tackle box for storing knives, flies, and bait, along with a bucket for the fish we’d hopefully catch. I had spotted a nice-looking pond on a country road I passed one day and decided it would be a perfect place to take Marc fishing for the first time. The weekend’s weather was in our favor, so I asked him if he wanted to go fishing with me. He hemmed and hawed and tried to find an excuse I would accept, but realized he was out of his league and agreed to go fishing with me on Saturday.
We set out that morning dressed for a day by the pond, wearing long sleeves and pants, not to mention rubber boots in case we’d need to go into the water. I’d also applied bug repellent and had Marc do the same, knowing how much we both disliked mosquitos. I could see Marc was reluctant, for when I stole a quick glance, his face was scrunched up in a disinterested grimace. I ignored it while I drove the ten miles south toward the country road I’d seen.
The road was not far from Mogadore Lake, and once I turned onto it, I was well pleased. Along the way were farms with picturesque old homes and stately red barns from another century. I noted that there were ponds on almost every property. As we went along, I reminded Marc of other rides we often took along similar roads. I had been a long-time student of Early American architecture, especially those Greek Revival and Federal homes that settlers built in the early to mid-1800s in the Cuyahoga Valley of Ohio. I’d often get out and take pictures of their eye-brow windows, double chimneys, verge boards, and window lights around the front door. One day, I took Marc with me, and we went north to a road where such early houses were common. He caught the architecture bug, and we still enjoy spotting them together.
Soon enough, I could see the pond I was searching for right next to the road. It did not seem like it was on developed land, for there wasn’t a house or farm or any postings in sight. It wasn’t that large of a pond but was surrounded by scrub pine and maple trees, with weeds that looked like they’d reach our knees. I got the fishing pole out of the back seat and picked up the tackle box and bucket. We trudged together through the weeds and brambles until reaching the water's edge. I scanned the area and saw no one, not a building, fence, or any sign of people. There were a few scattered logs along the edge, and we rolled them closer to have a place to sit while we fished.
We sat for a bit, just looking around, and were mostly quiet. I remember reflecting back to the time that my father took my brother Rob and me fishing on Watoga Lake. After that first outing, the family got to go fishing whenever we stayed at state parks, and we remember our fishing adventures fondly. I wanted to imprint on my son that same love of being outside, enjoying Nature, and the peace that silence brings. No cars passed us by; no planes flew overhead, no sounds of humans going about their day. Pure and simple silence, it was perfect.
I took a deep breath and began my fishing lesson, similar to the one my father gave to Rob and me that spring day in West Virginia. Marc listened intently and looked out over the pond, watching for any sign of fish while I spoke. Once I got the basics down, we studied the details of our fishing rod's pole, reel, and line. Next, I took out the tub of nightcrawlers I’d bought at a gas station, picked one out, and showed him how to thread the hook into the worm’s form. He didn’t flinch, just watched on as I went about the timeless chore of baiting the hook.
We walked down to the water and practiced casting out the line. It’s not rocket science, but I tried to teach Marc the right way, the way my dad had taught Rob and me. After casting the line several times, I handed the pole to Marc, who did his best to mimic my examples. Soon enough, we sat on the log and watched the bobber floating on the surface for ripples in the water, a sure sign of fish at the hook. I am guessing now, but I think we did this for an hour without any bites. Then I suggested we go further along the pond's edge, hoping it might be a better spot. While we stood there, I told him a little about my early life, camping with the family, fishing when we could, and seeing the country on trips across America. He asked lots of questions and seemed interested, but we’d still not seen any evidence of fish. We pulled the line out several times, and sure enough, the nightcrawler was still onboard.
Another hour or so went by, and still no nibbles, no flash of fish scales, no fish visible from the surface. I could tell Marc was bored and probably wanted to go home, but he didn’t say anything, for which I was thankful. Out of the blue, an old man walked past us on the road.
I stood and called out to him, “Excuse me, sir. Could I ask you a question?”
The man was wearing a beat-up straw hat, torn jeans with suspenders, a long-sleeved shirt with holes in the elbows, and boots covered in mud. He looked like a ranch hand with sunburnt skin, a wrinkled face, and hands.
He stopped, took a few steps toward us, and said, “Okay, what’s yer question?”
Suddenly uncomfortable, I stuttered, “Um, well, yo...you see, I brought my son here to teach him how to fish, and we’ve not had a bite in .....more than two hours. Do you happen to know why we can’t seem to catch any fish here today?” I smiled weakly, hoping he would shrug his shoulders and move on.
He threw back his head and laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his entire life. “Sorry to tell ya this, Mam, but there ain’t no fish in that pond... only snapping turtles.”
Now it was Marc’s turn. He broke up laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. Finally, I laughed, too... but I felt like an absolute fool. Why hadn’t I checked to see if this stupid pond had fish in it... before I went to all the trouble of bringing my son here like I was some kind of fishing expert?
Scratching the hair under his hat, the old man continued, “I saw a duck on that pond once. Snapping turtle leaped up from the water and grabbed the duck with his sharp jaws. He bit down, snapped that duck’s neck in two, and then pulled the rest of him underwater. It was a sight to see, let me tell ya, lots of blood. I bet that blasted turtle had a mighty fine dinner.” He laughed again, turned back to the road, and walked away.
I did not say a word to Marc, just picked up our gear and headed back to the car. My legs and arms felt itchy, like when I got chiggers picking black raspberries next to a bike path. We’d better scrub everything down with alcohol when we got home, I thought, or we’d be in a world of hurt. So I purposely avoided Marc’s probing look.
He shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Gee, Mom, don’t take it so hard. I’m not particularly eager to eat any fish. Besides, there’s no way I’d eat a fish I killed. You should’ve known that.”
I shoved the hatch door down on the back of the car, nodded, then said, “ I know that, son. I planned on turning any fish we caught back to the pond. I just want you to love the outdoors, see how beautiful Nature is, and...get some fresh air.”
He opened the passenger door and added, “I do love Nature, Mom, and I would like to do more things outdoors. So okay, we’ll do this again, only next time we’ll make sure there are fish we can catch!” He chuckled, crawled into the front passenger seat, and fastened his seatbelt.
I rolled my eyes but quickly began to think of where I’d take Marc for his second fishing lesson. As I drove down the road, the answer came to me, and I began to devise a plan. At least he was willing to give it another try, I reasoned.
The image of a snapping turtle biting off a duck’s head, then pulling it underwater to eat, with lots of blood everywhere... made me want to upchuck. Instead, I decided to make sure that wherever we did fish next time, it wouldn’t be in a pond full of turtles.
The story about the second fishing lesson is a hoot, but I’ll save it for another time. Needless to say, this is not the last turtle tale in my repertoire’.
*
TERESA BAKER’S FRIED CHICKEN AND HOMEMADE CINNAMON ROLLS
Recipes are like stories; we get the best ones from friends and family. If we pass them on, we can keep the recipe alive. And like a story, a recipe is a way to remember the special folks who gave them to us.
As I explained earlier, our first house was in Kent, Ohio, where I had a job at the university, and Al was working in Akron at his new position with the government. Across the street from our house lived a down-to-earth couple, Gene and Teresa Baker. Both were country people in their mid-50s, I’d guess, and had lived in the Kent area all their lives. Gene was an avid hunter, and Teresa was a great cook and the best gardener I’ve ever known, bar none. They became good friends of mine and a second set of grandparents to Marc. When my parents visited us, they would go across the street to see the Bakers; it was as if they’d known them forever.
Gene often asked Al and Marc to go hunting with him, but they politely turned him down since both were city boys. During hunting season, I often saw Gene in his garage, a dead deer hanging from the rafters. Once, he asked me if I’d like to watch him gut and butcher a deer for their freezer. I turned him down again, but politely. He knew me well and understood. I also turned down a large bag of frozen venison Gene brought over to our house. Gene knew how I was about animals and didn’t take it personally.
As a kid in West Virginia, I pulled weeds in our large garden, planted potatoes, strung up pole beans, and tied tomatoes to stakes, but I was not a real gardener. Teresa Baker taught me the art of gardening, the no-frills version. After the most difficult test I have ever taken, I received a Master Gardener’s certification. Still, I learned just about as much walking through Teresa Baker’s backyard. She showed me how to recognize most flowers by their first tiny leaves so that I could transplant seedlings throughout my gardens. I still use that method today.
The Bakers’ entire city-sized backyard was a pleasure to behold, with rows of vegetables and mounds of annuals and perennials I’d never seen before. Every square inch was filled with color and bounty. My mother had a small flower bed and, later in her life, was a pretty good gardener, but she could never remember the names of the plants. Teresa inspired me to teach myself the Latin names of flowers; I can still remember most of them.
Teresa, Marc, and I would go out in the country where she used to live with her mother, Jane Campbell. Teresa knew by heart the places to pick wild grapes, black raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, apples, and just about any native fruit or vegetable one could find in open fields and along country roads. By this time, Marc had turned into a young Nature lover. So when Teresa asked him if he’d like to go berry picking, he usually jumped at the chance.
Even before Marc was born, I greatly admired the author Euell Gibbons, who wrote the iconic book... Stalking the Wild Asparagus. I practically wore the book out, for I’d take it with us when we hunted for things to eat from the wild. I still treasure his book, for in it, Euell taught me to see plants as food, not merely vegetation. I’d often take Marc out into less populated areas. Since their roots are delicious, we’d search for yarrow, wild carrots, or potatoes. Our favorite was the wild asparagus and cattails that grew in marshes and along wetlands near Kent. We’d carry a penknife and plenty of bags, hoping to find enough for supper. On the other hand, Al was and is a meat and potatoes man and turned down offerings like steamed wild carrots and potatoes with wild mint and butter. At the time, they were not his thing, and they still aren’t.
As children at my family’s home in West Virginia, we put up everything from tomato sauce to applesauce and many fruits and vegetables. Stringing beans, peeling apples, and chopping tomatoes were required duties for my sisters and me. Along with mowing, my brothers had to till the rows, dig out potatoes and spray the apple trees for worms and bugs. I was and am a big canning enthusiast and still put up dilly beans, pasta sauce, peach, and hot pepper jam, to name a few of my favorites. Teresa Baker knew where wild grapes grew in great numbers, so the three of us would often head home with buckets full of purple grapes. Hooked on grape juice, Marc would help me turn the grapes into liquid during the canning process. As a result, I’d end up with jar after jar of delicious canned grape juice lined up on shelves in our fruit cellar.
One Saturday morning, Teresa asked if I would like to meet her 73-year-old mother, who had a farm near Kent. It sounded fun, so she drove us in her truck out to the farm. Teresa’s mother lived in an 1820s stone farmhouse surrounded by 50 acres of land, most of which was in pasture. Still, she did have a mighty fine flower and vegetable garden. I could see where Teresa got her love for gardening. Inside the house were antiques, quilts, and early American furniture handed down through many generations. Her mother, Jane Campbell, wasn’t a fancy person. She lived off the land, proud she didn’t owe a cent to anyone. I later learned that Jane had a hired hand, a man who helped with the heavy work and oversaw plantings in the fields. She grew hay for local farmers, and her hired man managed the tilling and bailing. Even on a small scale, it was a rewarding operation that kept Jane sitting pretty on her beautiful property without worrying about funds to operate it.
She took us on a tour of the house, and we chatted as we went along. Jane told me she always got up with the rooster, milked her three cows, and churned butter for herself and the Bakers. After a pleasant visit, she asked me if I liked chicken. I said yes, and that fried chicken was my husband and son’s favorite dish. Jane took me by the hand, and then we all went outside. Near the barn was a large wire chicken coup with several hens sitting on nests. Jane grabbed a hen and yanked it out by its neck. The hen was upset...but not for long. Jane took a hatchet, held the chicken’s neck on an old stump, and chopped off the head. The rest of the chicken didn’t seem to realize its missing link, for it flopped about the barnyard spewing blood on the ground. Disregarding the sudden violent act was difficult, even though I knew from my childhood friend, Alice, that killing chickens was common on a farm. I felt my eyes tear up but forced myself to shut that down.
Jane put the now-dead chicken in a clear plastic bag and told me how to clean and pull the feathers. Again, I was near tears but did my best to thank her for what I knew was a generous gift, which she probably didn’t make very often. Soon, Teresa and I were on our way home, the bloody chicken laying on the floor next to my foot, and yes, still in the plastic bag.
You’ll not be surprised to learn that this incident upset me. I felt tears slip down my cheeks on the way home. Once there, I begged Teresa to take the chicken since I felt sure I couldn’t clean or pull the feathers, much less fry it. I also made her promise not to tell her mother. Teresa felt awful and apologized, but I told her not to worry. I always cried over animals when they died. It is hypocritical that I can enjoy eating chicken but can’t stand the details of how it gets to my plate. I often say that I’d be a perfect vegan if I didn’t have to cook for my meat and potatoes husband. Truth be told: I am not a tofu fan, and beans upset my stomach.
The next morning, I opened the door to find two covered plates on our porch swing. One was a beautiful plate of fried chicken with two legs, wings, breasts, and thighs. On the other plate were cinnamon rolls, the best that had ever crossed my lips. I don’t make them often as they are on the fattening side, but whenever I do, I think of Teresa Baker.
*
AN EMERGING ARTIST
After we moved to Kent, and while I worked at the university, I began taking classes in various subjects, mainly areas I was interested in learning more about. One of the benefits of being a full-time employee at a state university back then was that I could take coursework free of charge. That was a big incentive for me to explore courses in higher education administration, the field I worked in at KSU, and courses in art and painting, which I’d studied at Ohio University. As a result, I took numerous classes in Chinese painting that, over many years of utilizing its deft stroke work, became the core foundation for my own art. I still use them today.
While researching painting, I stumbled upon a book in the university library that changed my life and career. Unfortunately, the publication date was something like 1939, and the pages were worn thin from use. The book presented the history of an art form first seen in the early 1700s in Norway. Like many countries of that period, Norway had its own version of folk art that reflected various regions in that Scandinavian country. Traveling artists of the time perfected the intricate scrolls and impressionistic flowers into beautiful and sophisticated work.
I devoured every page, memorized each photo, and searched for other information. Soon, I started to paint the difficult folk art using oil paint, a medium I’d used in college but not since. It took time, experimentation, and lots of practice. Finally, however, I started participating in area art shows, displaying my Rosemaling on handmade bowls, plates, and other traditional items used in l8th century Norway. Area newspapers printed articles about me and my work. I had professional slides made of the best pieces and, in time, was accepted into juried fine art shows.
And so I began a journey that would take me and my son Marc to Norway for a summer and then back home to realize my new life as a professional artist. I’d eventually quit my university job and travel to many states, showing and selling my work at some of the best art shows in the country.
*
THE CHICKEN FARM
I wanted to own a farm like the one on Lassie; it was my secret fantasy. I envisioned a gentle life, feeding chickens, horses, cows, and goats, with rescued dogs and cats following me as I made my rounds on the farm. I want to tell you a true story that changed my thinking about that fantasy. You may not think this is a Guardian tale, but it is, just not what you might expect.
Early in my career as an artist, I began to compile a large quantity of completed artwork. To present my Rosemaling advantageously at art shows, I needed attractive shelving that could sit on foldable tables and display my pieces above eye level. In addition, many customers who bought my work liked Early American decorating. Remember, this was a while ago, and country decorating was taking off. At a juried craft show, I ran into an artisan who used chicken crates to display his country-styled pottery. I felt the crates might be good for my work as well.
After thinking about it, I decided to search for new chicken crates. Not only could I use them for display, but I could also pack the work inside and transport them to and from my truck. Chicken crates are open-air boxes, roughly 36” by 24” by 24” deep, made with hickory dowels in rows on the sides, a solid sheet of wood on the bottom, and rows of dowels on the top with a hinged door. The door made it possible for one to add or remove the chickens. I discovered that buying new ones was too expensive, so I searched for used chicken crates I could purchase. An artist friend told me that a chicken farm in Northeastern Ohio sold used crates and gave me the number. I called and spoke to a pleasant woman I’ll call Anne, explaining what I had in mind. Anne wasn’t surprised by what I intended to use them for since artists like me had bought them from her many times before. So I arranged to visit the farm so I could look them over.
The spring day that I made my way to her farm was glorious. I carefully followed her directions when I drove my new truck along a country road in N.E., Ohio. The road was lovely, and the landscape was dotted with farms and old houses. In the country, properties typically have numbers on mailboxes up along the road, but I struggled to locate the correct address for her farm. Finally, coming over a rise, I spotted a beautiful farm and knew it was the right one without looking for the number. The setting was enchanting. The house itself was late Victorian, more of a farmhouse version than an ornate one. The farm sprawled over acres of land with pockets of evergreens crowding a stream, cows in a field nearby, and horses in a verdant pasture. Here was my dream farm, I thought.
Anne stepped off the house's front porch and was open and friendly. She had strawberry blond hair, was in her mid-forties perhaps, and had a sprinkle of freckles on her face. Anne’s light blue jeans had that soft sheen missing from ones you buy in a store. I loved her shirt. It was a chambray material that fit loosely on her thin form. But it was her scuffed boots that told her story; they reminded me of ones I’d see on cowhands out west, coated with dust and well-worn. I would later describe Anne as a natural beauty, wearing no makeup with her shoulder-length hair hanging loose. But I suspected by her manner that Anne was probably a PWAOS, if not a HOSP.
She took me out to see the used chicken crates they kept in a big metal barn. Even though the barn looked new, I loved what I saw once I entered. On one side was a temporarily roped-off area where they kept about thirty young lambs. They were some of the cutest little critters I’d ever seen. On the other side of the barn were tractors, hay bailers, plow blades, and other equipment I was unfamiliar with but assumed were utilized on the farm.
In the far recessed area of the barn were hundreds of used chicken crates, stacked one on top of another and maybe forty feet long by thirty feet deep. Anne said I could look them over and charge me ten dollars for any crates I wanted. The ones on the bottom seemed old, beat up, and had that unique chicken odor, but the ones further up looked newer. I asked if I could look at the newer ones and offered to climb up the stack, but she insisted that she would do it since she often climbed them. Anne began to clamber up the stacked crates to get to the newer ones, which rose about nine feet above the ground. She made her way to the other side, further away from me, and began moving some crates around.
I suddenly heard Anne fall, and it all happened so fast that there was nothing I could do. She was on the side, away from me, and I couldn’t see what had made her fall. Then I heard her cry out with a terrible moan, and I knew instantly she was hurt. Rushing to her side, I saw something horrific, a scene still etched in my mind. Anne had fallen against a sharp-looking plow blade that hung from the wall, and she was laying on the cement floor holding her leg. I hurried closer and realized her leg had an enormous gash and was bleeding profusely.
As a Girl Scout, I’d earned the First Aid badge and knew a little about injuries. However, Anne’s was very serious. Blood was pumping from the open wound, and I was sure she had cut an artery in her leg. I knew people could die from such an injury and swallowed hard. I quickly tried to recall what one should do. First, I tied the arms of my light jacket over her wound to stop the flow of blood. Then I put my hands under her arms and gently pulled her over next to the lambs, who were bleating an alarm by then. That way she could lean against a bale of hay and prop her leg up on another bale... so it was slightly above her heart. I knew I’d have to leave to find help, so I urged her to loosen the tourniquet around her leg every few minutes to protect the nerves. Anne nodded, saying she knew what to do since her mother was a nurse. Trying to organize a plan of action in my mind, I took a deep breath. I was absolutely sure she needed to get to a hospital. Still, when I said as much, she insisted I find her husband first.
Anne said her husband was up along the road beyond the house a piece, working on beehives. I hurried to ask how I was going to find him. She said I needed to look for a small white wooden box near a stand of evergreens, and his green truck should be close. I rushed to my vehicle, sped away from the barn, drove up the road, and searched for the beehives. It appeared to be an old dirt access road, muddy and rutted from recent heavy rains. However, I hurried because I knew I had only minutes to find him.
Now in county jargon, up the road a piece could mean anything, a hundred yards or a mile. I didn’t see the wooden box right away or the green truck. After a bit, and even more desperate, I turned around and raced back toward the farm. Instinctively, I knew I’d have to give up the search and get Anne some help. But then, I saw the stand of evergreen trees, a green truck, and a man working on a white beekeeper’s box in a field downhill from me. Even though my vehicle was not a four-wheel drive, I drove through the muddy field and rushed to tell him about his wife and her injury. He said for me to return to the farm, and he’d get there as quickly as possible. My last words to him were... please hurry. Thinking back on the whole episode, I honestly do not believe he understood how badly she was hurt.
I drove the truck back to the farm at a breakneck speed and slammed on the brakes in front of the barn door. Inside, Anne’s eyes were closed, and she seemed to be unconscious. I swallowed hard again. Then I noticed many of the lambs had stretched their necks over the rope and looked to be chewing on her hair. As I ran in, I yelled for them to stop, afraid they were hurting her. Anne opened her eyes, looked up, and softly told me not to worry. She said the lambs loved her; she was like their mother and had cared for them since birth. They knew she was in pain, Anne explained weakly, and were trying to comfort her.
Her face was pale white, and her husband rushed in as I checked her leg. I will never forget the look on his face. He realized immediately how critical the situation was, quickly carried her to his truck, and began to leave.
My heart was pounding, as you can imagine. All I cared about was that she received help in time. Nevertheless, as they drove away, Anne called out of the truck window and said she was sorry. I couldn’t believe it. Here she was seriously injured but instead concerned about me. She told me to pick out any crates I wanted, free of charge. Of course, I didn’t.
It took me an hour and a half to get home. I don’t have to tell you that I cried, reliving the experience in my mind. I kept second-guessing my actions. From the instant I got inside my house, I began calling Anne’s number, and finally, late that evening, I spoke to her husband. He said his wife would be all right, but they had barely gotten to the hospital in time. I told him how sorry I was that it had happened, but he thanked me repeatedly for being there to help her and for my quick thinking in accessing the wound. The doctors told him if not for the tourniquet, Anne might have lost her leg or even her life.
A few weeks passed, and she was often on my mind, so I called to see how she was doing. Anne said she was much better, going to therapy, but she still limped from the injury.
The sweet lady insisted that I return and pick out some crates. So about a week later, I went back, not to get the crates so much, but because I felt compelled to see her again. I spent a few hours with Anne, learning about life on a chicken farm. She loved her farm, but more importantly, she loved the animals under her care. I won’t go into the operation details because I learned the chicken farm business is not what I expected. It is also not a place for a tenderhearted HOSP like me, and I scratched chicken farms off my dream list.
Several years later, I called again, but the number was disconnected. Then, finally, I remembered the artist friend who’d initially told me where I could buy used crates. I found her number and called to see if she knew how Anne was doing. My friend said the family had sold the property and moved to Florida. The wonderful, kind woman who loved her lambs had permanent damage to her leg from the injury and could no longer handle the hard work of a farm.
It was not my fault that this terrible thing happened; it was a freak accident. However, I honestly believe I was meant to go to that farm for some reason. Maybe Anne would have hurt herself anyway, and no one would have been there to help. Or just perhaps I’d been driven to go there for a different purpose: I met another Guardian of the Road that day, all those years ago, and I will never forget her.
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