The Parade

Raytown was a different place in the 60s. 

That’s an understatement, to be sure. Everywhere was a different place in the 60s, and any given subject was likely swimming in turmoil. Between the Cuban Missile Crisis, anything that involved a Kennedy (including sudden and public tragedy to the highest degree), the ongoing fight for civil rights, and ever evolving protests on college campuses, it was a very loud time. Families lived in fear of sending their men to Vietnam. Wives sat primly in polyester dresses while watching their husbands set foot on the moon for the first time. The Beatles, Elvis, and Jimi Hendrix provided background music for all of it—depending on who you talked to.*

Raytown’s population was growing rapidly throughout the 60s, and it would be dishonest to say it was a wholesome and tidy affair. A decent amount of those families arrived as a result of their unwillingness to love all of their neighbors, and the after effects would take years to undo.

It’s a different place and a different home now, but the work never stops.

The houses are much the same—cookie cutter ranch homes, standardized to suit the post-war GI bill, circling the grids of old blocks and culdesacs. They were evidence of a years-long effort to get military men back into jobs, and women in the family way. Gaggles of kids shared bedrooms and bathrooms—if they were lucky, the backyard came with a chain link fence for the family labrador to play in. 

If not, well, he would come back when he’s hungry.

Amidst the mess and the mundane, something new began to take shape. A lot of people don’t automatically think of music when the topic of Raytown comes up. The suburb is normally known for its accomplishments in basketball, dance, and—more recently—in track and field. But making Raytown a musical place was a labor of love that spanned decades, and it was at this point in time when educators began to see the benefits of music education alongside core subjects. Some (ok…a lot) might argue that the good fight started with Doc.

Doc Lewis, that is.

Raytown has been home to at least a couple of notable “Docs,” but Doc Lewis was the first. Known for his tough exterior and fierce competitive nature, he demanded excellence from his students. If a kid played any kind of horn and didn’t join his jazz band, he’d be the first to stop them in the hallway and demand to know why. He never forgot a face, and has been known to recognize his musicians decades after he ever conducted them.

As one student put it: “he could scare the living daylights out of you, but once you were one of his kids, you were one of his kids.”

Raytown South High School frequently won first in state band competitions and participated in local jazz festivals. There was even one fall semester when the marching band was specially selected to play for the Kansas City Chiefs half-time show in the downtown stadium. The game was broadcast as far away as Sedalia. 

You get the point. This was a sophisticated operation in a place with a lot of history.

One nearly-autumn day, on the bright afternoon of a Missouri September, several students sat in an English class. This particular part of the school building sat parallel to Raytown South’s football field, and the instructor opened a few of the windows after a lengthy internal debate with herself. The marching band would be rehearsing, and the floating notes of saxophones and drum lines would be invasive—however, it was also 90 degrees and stuffy, which would take away from the students’ concentration even more.

She ran a finger under her neck ruffle to allow a breeze on her collarbone. One student ran a hand across his forehead, while another leaned a chin on her palm while gazing at the blackboard with half-lidded eyes. One particular blue-eyed teenager shoved her sheet music into her orchestra folder as she organized her things, then moved her bookmark in the Jane Austen novel they were reviewing to the next page. The instructor turned back to the blackboard to circle a bullet point. The teenager looked up, then back to her notes once more when a gasp interrupted all of them. 

The instructor had a hand clasped tightly to her mouth, and tears sprang from the corner of her eyes—now shut into crinkled half-moons. Raucous laughter bubbled out of her as her shoulders bobbed up and down. This jarred the class awake, and as they looked around them to investigate, the instructor began to laugh even louder and point out the window.

In a flash, all 25 kids bolted for the edge of the classroom and began to inspect their surroundings. The muted notes of shuffled feet, flutes, and tubas scooted behind the bleachers. One kid squinted his eyes as another curved his hand over his brow to shade the glare. The volume became exponentially louder as one row marched past the bleachers, then another, and another. The marchers gave no hints—each one was in a hyper focused state, darting eyes from the drum major to their instruments while counting steps. The students glanced back at their teacher, now leaning on the edge of the desk and gasping for breath, then returned their gaze to the scene. The marchers continued to progress past the bleachers when—there! At the tail end of them, something odd slowly began to come into focus. The bottom seats were interrupted with what looked like small feet, walking in time to the music. Trotting shadows began to wave across the pieces of field that were visible between the slats. Before long, one kid spotted what looked like…hair?

When the song grew to a full roar, the students‘ eyes widened as they saw what sent their teacher into hysterics.

The last row of musicians marched past the bleachers—and so did every single dog in the neighborhood. 

How Doc never noticed escapes all of us. My mom, who was taking notes in her English class, couldn’t say for sure. And neither could my dad, who was playing alto saxophone. 

Eventually they’d grow up and raise a bunch of Blue Jays, so I guess it’s neither here nor there. But as far as we’re concerned, it’s still the funniest thing that’s ever happened on that football field.

Footnotes:

*Never ask me or my father about The Beatles, we will info-dump on the nuance of music trends for hours and we won’t let you leave.

The Sisters

Little feet in little shoes paused in the street.

There was a loud clank, then a fsssst of air as the school bus shuttered its doors and rumbled down the street. The neighborhood kids stampeded around her, everyone on their way to unbothered afternoon snacks and an hour of PBS. She shuffled to the grass as she took stock—jeans from Walmart with faded knees, a green scrunchy in her hair, a purple scrunchy on her wrist, her jacket slung over an elbow and two backpack straps re-fastened over her shoulder. A breeze filtered through loose leaves before circling her face, tracing the lines of a scowl forming between her dimples. Today had been great until five minutes ago.

Only halfway satisfied, she began to stomp up the hill toward a cul de sac with her bruised ego in tow. Her friend Courtney turned around briefly to give her a sympathetic look, then charged back up the hill. The girl spent most rides being perfectly happy staring out the window daydreaming. She was doing just that when suddenly two feet wearing faded black and white Pumas flew straight into her shoulder. Recalling the memory, she craned to the back of her backpack and ripped the “kick me” sign off of it, balling the yellow paper between her fingers.

Fifth grade boys were vile. Who does that to a third grader, anyway?

She reached the culdesac and turned right. Her stomps intensified, each shake against the ground angering the hornets nest in her chest. She considered giving the next person she encountered an earful about the injustice that just occurred, but who was she kidding? She’d figure out how to be mad about it quietly like she always did. 

Her sneakers scuffed into the third driveway. The wind picked up again, with the fickle coolness of a Missouri October soothing the red in her cheeks. She used her wrist to clumsily brush her bangs from her eyes as she reached the porch. Her other hand grasped the handle of the green storm door. Just as she opened it, a scent greeted her that stopped her in her tracks.

Cinnamon. 

The Groom sisters were here.

With new excitement, she yanked open the storm door and passed into the entryway. She quickly shoved a foot over one shoe, then wobbled as she did the other, arranging the sneakers by the coat closet. She set her backpack and jacket next to her shoes—this was Joyce’s house after all, and shoes and backpacks had a place. She eyed Sandy, Joyce’s elderly dachshund, before deciding better of it and kept going (Sandy was a short dog in a tall world and therefore  had a strict “no kids under fourteen touch me” policy that no one had any intention of testing). She slid through the dining room in her socks, passed the pile of apples on the table, and turned left into the kitchen before abruptly stopping against a sea of bustling aprons. 

They parted as a chorus of voices shoo’d her to the kitchen table. She plopped down into the chair as a plate with toast and warm apple butter slid in front of her. “Don’t tell your brothers,” Joyce said as she winked. They would be stuck with refrigerated apple butter.

Sometimes being the quietest sibling had its perks.

The girl sank her teeth into the toast and took in her surroundings. A giant pot bubbled on the stove. Spices dusted one of the counters. Coils of apple peels were piled into every open corner. Sugar and nutmeg wove its way through the air and tickled her nose. Jars nearly full of applesauce rested next to rings of mason jar lids. A spoonful of flour had escaped to the floor. Two worn washcloths dangled over the sink, and the counter next to it was decorated by the piece de resistance—the giant, industrial sized apple peeler. 

The girl looked at the appliance greedily as she listened to feet shuffling over the linoleum. The sharp prongs and shiny red handle greeted her eyes, responding in a silent taunt. One sister shoved an apple onto it and turned the crank, obliterating the core and skinning the fruit in a matter of seconds. The remains were discarded, then another apple pushed onto the prongs. 

It was never clear how many Groom sisters would be present for apple processing day, or if apple processing day would happen every single year. They came from a family of fourteen children and descended from a matriarch affectionately famous for her common sense. They scattered all over the country, and their professions were all over the place. Some were teachers, others were office admins, still others were homemakers and caretakers. One still lived on the family farm, where maybe one or two fruit trees remained catty corner to the strawberry field. But every once in a while, time would blossom for enough of them and 3, 4, sometimes even 5 would crowd someone’s kitchen to make an ungodly amount of apple flavored things.

It was an excuse to get together, really.

The girl brushed crumbs on to the plate and licked a sticky spot from her pinky. She debated the best way to make it to the sink when a hand shot out and motioned toward her plate. She was traded a damp washcloth, where she quickly wiped down the table, and handed it back. The sister in front of the peeler turned to her, noting the shine in the child’s eyes, and asked; “do you want to try it?”

Abruptly forgetting her manners, the girl cheered and hustled over to the counter. She was handed an apple, and hands gently helped her to push it onto the prongs. Others made sure that her fingers were far from the blade, double checking that the thing was still securely clamped to the counter in the process. The girl looked up expectantly, and was given the go-ahead. She cranked, and rings of apple peel spooled toward her. She gasped in delight, and asked for another. More hands helped her pry the fruit away and quickly produced a trash can for the remains. They repeated the process once more—push, crank, squeal, trash. After the third she was handed an apple slicer, a cutting board, and a bowl to make quick work of the apples she just peeled.

The afternoon wore on like that, with hustle and tastes and interruptions. After her 6th or 7th apple the girl became distracted and wrinkled fingers gently scooted her into the living room to watch Arthur. It was perfect timing, as one brother swung open the green storm door to take her place at the table. 

They had about 20 minutes before their mother would pick them up. When she did, a jar of apple butter was handed off along with chatter about who was doing what these days. The imprint of kitchen smells followed them all the way home.

I never overestimated my place in the legendary Groom lineup. I knew my spot. I wasn’t technically a grandchild, but somehow we’d all get smooshed into the gigantic gaggle of children running amok anyway. They were one of many who were present for the small, normal things. I tagged along to birthday parties, family reunions, cookie decorating marathons, and random afternoons at any given kitchen table. I never had to remind them of my name, or tell them who I belonged to. They pushed us outside to play, and yelled at us to stop screwing around when the neighborhood-wide capture the flag game went rogue. One knew what grade I was in every time she visited—I never had to remind her. Another gave me basic sign language lessons when I asked. Yet another sewed me a hand-made tote. They listened in on grade cards, and hair braiding lessons, and gave anyone around a front row seat to apple butter making.

I vaguely remember learning a line dance or two, but don’t quote me on that.

For me, it was always a village, full to the brim with women who did all kinds of things—and it never took that much to make it.

Maybe just a little cinnamon. And a dash of nutmeg.

The Storm Chaser

Jim crammed himself into the corner of his bunk—back hunched, eyes peeled, hands curled around the scratchy tan blanket he was issued. He watched the opening of his tent, wincing every now and then as the door flaps snapped in the wind. Each crack sounded like a gunshot. That’s how strong the wind was, and it was a constant contest between what might bring the whole thing down…the wind, or the torrents of rain.

Jim was not a stranger to frightening sounds. He and his team were stationed on the other side of Okinawa. It was 1945. While Jim sat atop a bulldozer crafting runways, harbors, and bridges, the other side of the island was steeped in combat. Jim’s days were often interrupted by the sound of explosions, separated only by some miles in between. He wasn’t sure which was worse—the hellish noise, or the misting silence afterward.

Terror arrived in a lot of forms that year. Tonight’s version was something altogether different. This was Jim’s very first typhoon.

They didn’t have typhoons back in his hometown of Aurora, Illinois. Sure, they had tornadoes every now and then, but that’s what potato cellars were for. Those storms didn’t reach wind gusts of 100 mph. They didn’t have mudslides, or tides that could rise and swallow him whole. Here he had little else but a bunk, a blanket, a tent and a team to get him through it. Being afraid out loud wasn’t an option.

He sat up most of that night, craning an ear for any sign that the storm might subside. Peace came for a moment around 2 am, then quickly brought more screams of wind  in behind it. Jim must have surrendered to sleep at some point, because the morning found him slumped and crusty-eyed. He sat up soggy, noting the goosebumps dotting his arms and ignoring the damp in his hair. He searched for sounds of wind and found none. The tent flaps were still. The waves, only ripples now. A bird outside sang a cheery little song about it. Jim counted his fingers and wiggled his toes. All there, all present.

He made it through the night.

A few months later, just as multiple military branches began to convene on the island in a plan to invade Japan, Jim and his unit got some news. After months of believing a storm, a battle, or a bullet would leave him on the island for good*, Jim was told he was going home.

He told his family later: “Most shot off their guns in celebration. I would have too but I thought to myself, ‘I just cleaned the damn thing and I don’t want to do it again.’”

Jim spent every year in a posture of gratitude after that. After a war, a storm, and a bulldozer in the sea (that’s a story for another day), he had been handed his life back. He was too exhausted from the experience to be afraid anymore. So, everything since then was a wonder to behold. He got to do things he wasn’t sure were possible—like marry his soulmate, and have some kids, and watch those kids have kids, all from the comfort of his quiet midwestern town of Kansas City, Missouri.

After the typhoon, any other storm was a treat. Instead of being afraid of the pea green skies and monstrous winds that would rattle his new home, he stepped out on the porch with sparkling eyes. The louder the storm, the better.

His granddaughter, however, could not be convinced.

It was a warm and wet spring night. The girl and her brother were staying with Jim and his wife (quite possibly so the rest of their family could get some peace and quiet.) All the ingredients were present for an adventurous thunderstorm. The  air stilled, hanging over the neighborhood like velvet curtains. The humidity curled hair and dripped into neck collars. Just as 8 o’clock hit, the first thunderclap boomed overhead, and Jim sighed in contentment. Here we go.

His wife called out. He looked toward her, and realized that a child was missing from the living room. It wasn’t like her to run off. The two of them called, and searched: creaking open the back screen door, bending over chairs, fanning hands underneath bed skirts. It wasn’t until Jim entered his office when he noticed two little socked feet scrunched underneath his desk.

Arthritis wouldn’t allow him to kneel, and it wouldn’t get her out anyway. So he pulled out his chair and sunk into it, prepared to wait this out.

“What are you doing under there, huh?” Jim asked. The feet yanked backward in response. “Not a fan of the storm?” He was met with obstinate silence. He imagined, correctly, that the  little one shook her head and cowered deeper into the corner she’d made. Another bolt of lightning flashed across the windows.

Jim paused, thinking for a moment. He tried telling her there was nothing to be afraid of before. It was never convincing. Of course it wasn’t. This six year old had no concept of the kind of foreboding you only find in war. He looked to the left and spied the leather wristlet he used for bowling. An idea began to form.

“I’ve told you about the bowling league in heaven, right?” He asked. More silence. He pressed on. “Oh, they LOVE to bowl up in heaven. They do it all the time, but they have to move around because it makes so much noise.”

The girl inched the tiniest bit forward  so she could hear better.

“Can you imagine if they bowled over Kansas City every night? What a ruckus that would be!”

A freckled nose appeared from under the desk. Finding her voice, she asked: “Who bowls up there?” 

“Well, the angels do, of course. They are very professional. Some say, if you bowled a lot on earth, you get added to the team automatically.”

A soft “oooh,” escaped her mouth, and a chin appeared atop two fists as she leaned forward.. 

“I’m sure they have a very sophisticated team name…though, they’ve never told me what it is. And the shirts! Brilliant colors, embroidered with gold”

“Do they wear the shoes? They don’t have to rent them?” She was fully invested now. Imagine a world where you didn’t have to rent bowling shoes. 

“They do! And a big crystal trophy if they win.”

Just then, lightning flashed against the windows. The girl scrambled back to her spot under the desk. A huge clap of thunder sounded, and she whimpered against the wood of the desk. 

“Oh my goodness, did you hear that?” Jim raised his arms above his head in jubilation. “They got a strike!” The nose peeped out one more time. Another thunderclap sounded, and it flinched. “What a game this is! They got another one! Can you believe it?”

Success. A whole face craned outward, framed in a set of bedraggled bangs. The skepticism slowly faded, and she eyed the wristlet next to Jim. 

“Do they use those?” the girl asked.

“Oh no,” Jim replied. “That’s what Angel bowling training camp is for.”

That did it. “Camp?! Like with s’mores?! Do you think they are there now?”

“I don’t know,” Jim shrugged. He waved a hand toward the window. “Go see for yourself.”

She scurried over to the window, placing finger tips on the smooth wood and searching the skies. Another flash, accompanied by a low rumble. She jumped backward, plugging her ears. 

Jim bent toward her, placing his hands on hers, gently pulling them away. “I think they missed that one. Must’ve been a rookie.”

Her eyes were shining now. She searched his face, looking for a reason to be afraid.  He stilled, waiting patiently as she settled on an answer. Another crack sounded, splitting the sky. Her face lit up as she ran screeching down the hallway toward her brother. “A strike! They got a strike!”

Jim sighed, rubbing his eyes while a smile escaped from the corner of his mouth. Crisis averted. She didn’t need to know about the typhoons. Not yet, anyway.

Anyway, that’s how my grandfather taught me to trade fear for wonder. 

…Or tried to, at least. I still hate storms.

Footnotes:

*Sitting atop a bulldozer didn’t mean he was safe. It just meant he was an easier target. 

The Defender.

Alice was a recent graduate of the School of Hard-Knocks.

Enrolling was not her choice. She entered this world as an orphan of circumstance. With a mother who died in childbirth and a father who disappeared, she was a legacy member. What likely happened upon her arrival is that a local family informally took over her guardianship, raised her from infancy, and put her to work. It’s possible she was the built-in nanny for the rest of the children—or at the very least expected to be grateful of her placement, whether genuine affection was present or not. Even in the best of circumstances, if it existed, she never felt quite like she possessed a real place to land—a valid and not altogether uncommon version of the adoptee experience. The people around her painted a portrait of what they thought her life should look like. The very moment of her birth robbed her of any agency she could have had access to, and she walked with that unwelcome heaviness in silence.

 It did not help that she was likely of either Scottish or Irish descent, which was a population that early America did not treat with any form of kindness.

Marriage was her only escape. At the tender age of 15, she wed. Technically her name was Lavonia Alice, but no one called her that. Technically his name was Harry Edwin, but no one called him that either. They made a perfect pair. 

Together they scraped a livable existence as homemaker and handyman, paying for everything in cash and forgoing luxuries like sugar, store bought butter, and electricity. Indoor plumbing was out of the question. By the time they landed in their built-from-scratch farmhouse at the end of the lane, Alice had the fragments of her aspirations all tied together: a family, with three little ones in tow and even a little barn cat to keep her company. She and Edwin finally arrived, with the life she dreamed of built right into the wooden porch steps. 

Of course, her dreams arrived right on the heels of the Great Depression. 

Alice was thrust into the quiet work of trying to make it. It was fortunate that Edwin just started with the railroad, because it was a job he was not likely to lose. Even so, food cost more money than they had. It was the garden that saved them, and Alice tended to it with the determination only a 1930s housewife could put forth. Every March into the next decade Alice would kneel over endless rows of dirt, poking, mounding, watering and pruning her family’s survival. She’d rise every morning before the sun to tend to their milk cow, and finish by sloshing feed for the calf they’d be raising for beef. In between she’d bend over a hot canner, snipping and boiling and sweating until they had 100 quarts of vegetables to keep in the pantry. Alice’s love meant apron strings and action. She knew more than anyone that happiness like this was not just handed to you, and she certainly was not going to allow economic collapse to take it away.

Living meant loving, and it also meant fighting. So it’s no wonder that those her loved her best described her as determined and scrappy.

The three drunk strangers never knew what hit them.

The night was stormy and wet. Fat drops of rain soaked the dirt around the clapboard porch. Lightning illuminated the windows every so often, flashing in nervous little eyes peering over fingers into the dark outside. It was nearly bedtime for the three Anthony munchkins, and Edwin was just about to head to second shift. Alice stood in front of the stove, taking the coffee pot from the burner and pouring him a cup as he headed out the door. She lowered the heat, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to start the work of shooing her little ones into their beds. They looked at her with pleading eyes and she shook her head, pointing to the hallway with clear communication that no nonsense would be happening tonight. They scampered into the bedroom, and Alice kissed them each in turn. Just as she tucked the youngest into her homemade quilt, two slow knocks sounded at the front door.

Keeping a neutral expression, Alice stood, turned, and closed the bedroom door behind her. She walked into the living room, puzzled, and reached for the knob. Slowly she opened the front door and there stood three people she had never met before. Two young men and a woman, slouched and loose in rumpled clothing. The rank smell of old whiskey fingered it’s way into the house. As Alice listened in between their slurs, she could see that they were requesting shelter from the coming thunderstorm.

Alice ran through various scenarios quickly in her head. She was not opposed to hospitality but four considerations occurred in tandem that gave her pause: these were strangers, it was the middle of the night, her children were in bed, and her husband wasn’t home. She knew more than anyone that everything she had bled, sweat, toiled and cried for could be gone at the snap of a finger. Times were hard, and uncertainty had a 50/50 chance of being either benign or a death sentence. She motioned them inside and pointed toward the kitchen. As they turned toward the table, she hurried to the gun case and grabbed Edwin’s shotgun.

Just as the three circled the kitchen table, Alice entered and ordered them against the wall. She was not a stranger to a fair shot and it showed, as one hand held the barrel perfectly perpendicular and the other curled around the trigger. The woman held her hands up, eyes wide, and the three complied. They looked at each other with eyebrows raised, asking silently if this tiny five foot woman was for real. The boyish man in the middle broke into a sloppy grin, sauntering forward. He called her “little lady” and pushed the barrel to the side, throwing a swaggering look to his comrades.

Alice recovered quickly and grunted, eyes burning in fear and rage. No man, least of all a stranger, walks into her house and bosses her around. There was too much at stake. Stepping forward, she pressed the barrel into his chin and raised his eyes to meet hers. The cold metal pressed his delicate neck skin and scraped the meandering five o’clock shadow. Alice Anthony was not in the mood for games.

He reluctantly acquiesced, raising his hands in mock surrender and stepping back against the wall. They asked how long they would have to stand there, and Alice informed them that her husband would be home at midnight. They asked if they could at least sit, and Alice forcefully shook her head. A floorboard in the hallway made the tiniest creak and, without turning, Alice ordered her youngest back into bed. The woman asked if she could at least take her shoes off and Alice pointed the shotgun at her, studied her face, and reluctantly agreed. “No sudden movements,” she growled.

They stayed like that for a possible eternity. After an hour, Alice pulled out a kitchen chair and sat, sweat beading on her forehead, shoulder aching, and gun still trained on the three. Burnt coffee and the scent of firewood wound it’s way through the air. The man on the left let his head droop, straightened sharply, then drooped again. The woman scratched her cheek as her foundation started to flake. The middleman dug into his pocket for a cigarette, and Alice said “absolutely not.” The clock over the door frame ticked incessantly, each gearshift getting louder by the minute. Alice had given birth to three children without an epidural and still, somehow, this was the longest night in her remembrance. 

Finally, just as the small chimes struck midnight, the front door opened and Edwin’s footsteps thumped through the doorway. They heard stomping as he shook the rain from his shoes and a soft shush as his coat hit the rack. Alice had never been so glad to hear such a sound. He called her name and she responded that she was in the kitchen, eyes trained on the three. Edwin breezed through the kitchen door and stopped short, surveying the scene before him with shock. 

What happened next is unclear to family history. Knowing Edwin, it’s certain that several four letter words were involved. It’s a good thing they lived in a rural area, otherwise his tirade toward the three would have certainly woken an entire neighborhood. Quicker than a cricket, the three rushed out of the house and down the road, with Edwin shouting that they better not let to door hit them where the Lord split them.

They would not be returning to that area of town anytime soon, if ever.

Anyway, that’s the story of how my great grandmother held three strangers in her kitchen at gunpoint.

The Mischief Makers.

Where two or three are gathered, parenting advice abounds.

That was true for Jenny, anyway, even though it looked a little bit different in the nineties. Ok, in theory the kids should do their homework before tv, but Rugrats only comes on at 4. Is it considered “teaching the kids to cook” if they are microwaving a cheese quesadilla? What time is Saturday’s play date at the all-metal playground again? How many times can I use these parachute pants as a sibling hand-me-down before it’s considered child abuse? Fruit by the Foot is absolutely not a meal, end of discussion.

Her philosophy varied from kid to kid, but one thing remained consistent across the board—snow days were sacred. 

First and foremost, snow was a free toy, and it covered the entire yard. Yard upon yard of nature-made entertainment lay peacefully waiting just to be disturbed. Second of all, snow provided an immediate upside to a sometimes crappy situation. Who cares if the heat was out, when you can spend all day sledding anyway? Lastly, what most people don’t know about Missouri winters is that they spend most of their time being ugly. Mud. Gray. Naked, dead trees. Ditches full of leaves and muck. Ice and rain, taking turns. Snow happens every once in a while when the weather decides to do something pretty. Glittering hillsides were something worth celebrating and experiencing. 

Per Jenny’s infallible doctrine; dawns such as these were meant for pajamas, waffles, cartoons, wet socks, dry blankets, and every excuse to take a quick break from the world and remember that kids were just kids. Power went out? Grab the camper stove and the board games. Roads are bad? Sounds like a great day for toasty naps. It’s fifteen degrees? Even better—find your boots and go play.

Imagine her children’s delight when the dead of January arrived and they awoke to a foot of snow frosting the streets. Smooth. Clean. Glittering. 

The second oldest of them charged down the stairs, skid around the tiled corner and ripped open the curtains. The oldest sat in front of the tv, squinting at the tiny print scrolling down the bottom, fists clenched on bent knees in anticipation. The last, barely old enough to know what a snow day was, trudged down the stairs with hair sticking in seven different directions while rubbing her eyes. Just before she could complain about the noise, snow pants and gloves were shoved in her arms as the boys proceeded to dance around the living room while yelling at the top of their lungs. No time for breakfast, the whole outside was waiting.

They were very fortunate children, because the previous snowfall taught them how fun it was to gather up the visiting cousins, pile on a sled, and launch off the icy porch full speed ahead. The landfalls were epic and God help them if they needed to get to the hospital, but they continued the tradition with gusto either way. Snowballs were crafted and they waged all out war with them. One took on the task of engineering snow forts (nay, fortresses) of stunning proportions. The littlest sister made snow angels and screeched at decibels not previously known to mortals when the boys stepped in them. All three crafted adorable villages of miniature snowmen and promptly ran over them, executing all kinds of theatrics while observing the resulting carnage. The family dog, who asked for none of this, kept getting “discovered” in the snow and “rescued” from an avalanche like in that one movie they saw. They romped and rolled and raved until they exhausted every possible mode of play and finally —after hearing Jenny’s call—stampeded inside for lunch. 

It was just in time. They had all been gathered around the back 40 shed, taking measurements and rehearsing a running start in order to try and scale the roof. You’d think they’d be more reluctant to disrupt their plans, but there was one more card in the deck—Jenny made spaghetti for lunch 

Oh, spaghetti. Behold, this tomato-y nirvana that meant deliciously thawing from the inside out via warm belly after romping around the arctic backyard like a bunch of Neanderthals. Finger and toe-cicles are best recovered under the influence of pasta, and anyone with an educated opinion should consider garlic bread as its own brand of therapy. The best part of that day came from loving hands that made a meal, and every time I look back on it I remember that winter was often made most wonderful by how we warmed up. 

Anyway, that’s the story of our very best snow day.

The Inventor

His name was Ogden.

And, as if that wasn’t punishment enough, he had a tendency toward breaking his neck.

The first time was a freak accident. Someone was fooling around after band class and accidentally hit him just right with a music stand, striking exactly where the neck bones meet the spine. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, right in the middle of the hallway. It nearly killed him and the only reason he survived was thanks to the only physician in town who agreed to treat him. No modern medicine in existence was usable—everything was too risky—so the doctor used the safest alternative available: flour sacks. Pounds and pounds of flour sacks, dusty and stacked, packed into any gap that could possibly be mobile. Ogden laid in them for weeks, deeply contemplating the unfairness of it all and wondering if he would ever know a day that wasn’t…this. What a shame that a single moment he didn’t choose would land him in 3 months worth of finely ground wheat.

It’s funny how the things that try to end us can turn around and save us.

As it happens, Ogden did survive. Restitution came in threes, arriving by the names of a garage, a graduation, and a vibrant pair of eyes named Vesta. Senior years can be perfect sometimes, and Ogden’s seemed to repay him for his trouble. He saw the other side of a year, then two, then four—each of them wrapped in Christmases and marriages and the warmth of July suns. He welcomed life on the upswing for as long as he could. Any day that wasn’t spent on a flour sack was a good one.

 In the thick of the sixth year, a sharp dressed recruiter handed him a draft card. 

The good news, if there were any to be found, was that Ogden happened to be a gifted mechanic. He started training in an automobile garage at the tender age of 17, taking to it like a sparrow just out of the nest. When the war arrived and his enlistment to the Air Force with it, he brought along a whole repertoire of expertise to basic training. In fact, while the Two Hands entrance test did a thorough job of overwhelming all the men onboarding with him, he sailed through it—matching part to description and scrawling through each tiered drawing of an engine with the concentration of an osprey. “Genius” was not the right word to describe Ogden, but he was a man that knew machinery and thanked all the deities when he didn’t have to mess with word problems.

Word problems were the worst. 

“Athletic” was also not the right word to describe Ogden. Thus, when he was cajoled into joining the next game amongst his fellow basic training comrades, he knew he was in trouble. Coordination wasn’t really his strong suit. He managed to hold his own right into the third quarter. While turning to eye a pass spiraling in his direction, he collided head first into a line-backer. 

What a waste. Ogden hadn’t taken apart an airplane yet. He didn’t even get to fly. 

Ogden found himself once again laid up in a hospital bed, immobile and cursing his luck. How, HOW did he end up in this same situation again? The first time he had to survive this, he only made it through by telling himself he’d never have to do it again. 

He had to do the worst thing he’s ever done, twice.

To add insult to injury, his outfit shipped out without him. His contribution to the war came to an abrupt and anticlimactic end. There was no heroic story of survival. No letters home about bravery, or stoic inspiration. He broke his neck, a second time, for a reason that didn’t even make any sense. It was like dislocating a knee because you were being chased by a chicken.

Ogden, however, was blissfully unaware that his guardian angel was a master of subtlety. The thing that was meant to break him actually ended up making him.

When he was finally on the mend, Ogden was shipped out to Georgia. He would be updating B20 bombers—a task so intricate that he would essentially be taking planes completely apart and putting them back together again. Nothing less than a mechanical brainiac would do.

Ogden was in possession of a mind that managed to wander while also running at 100 miles per hour. It stands to reason that when he was on his second plane for the week doing the same thing he’s been doing for a month, problem-solving was an inevitability. He noticed that he could save at least a day if he could just get between this one crevice in the plane’s machinery. He examined the space between, then looked to the scraps in his toolbox: a wrench head, some metal bits, and a cable. 

After working at it for a bit, he cobbled together a prototype—a cable wrench, with a head at one end and a square anchor on the other. It worked beautifully, and his teammates noticed. He passed it around, and soon they were all able to finish a plane within 2 days. They were cranking them out at a record pace, plane after plane after plane. The most discounted side effect of undiagnosed ADD came into play and blew their work out of the water—innovation. The creative kind.

There is a bit of philosophy floating around that is often the most true, especially for Ogden: a series of hardships often come before a breakthrough. A broken neck had already killed his youth and saved his life, but one more thing stood on the docket.

The military was bound to notice eventually. And notice they did, coming in full force with an aggressive investigation. If planes were being churned out this fast there could only be one explanation. The world was still living in the time of Hitler’s rise to power—being too careful was an impossibility. Expecting a medal, or at the very least a hearty thank you, Ogden arrived at the commanding office with a speech prepared. They countered with a staggering accusation. Of all the things he planned, supposed sabotage was not one that Ogden anticipated. 

They took the parts he used out of his paycheck and sent him back, sans cable wrench. He and his team begrudgingly returned to doing it the old way while the military conducted their investigation—which, of course, was painfully slow and exceptionally inefficient. Ogden worked, taking breaks to wipe his brow and rub his sore muscles, occasionally catching the side eye of the teammate working next to him. Of all the stenches found in the barracks, impending failure was the worst. What a waste of a broken neck this was. 

The investigation crawled, sifting through every possible background check, fingerprint, paystub and grade card. Try as they might, evidence of something untoward was non-existent. They couldn’t find anything. Ogden was called back in and informed that he was in the clear. He would not be compensated for the parts but he was rewarded. 

Ogden was the proud winner of a single day off. 

Anyway, that’s the story of how my grandfather invented a wrench.

The Late Bloomers

Audry was supposed to be an old maid.

That’s what she told her grandchildren, anyway. In her experience, every family had at least one. Her brother was already married, though the family still wasn’t sure how he tricked someone into doing it. Her sister was also married, with a baby on the way and a husband fresh on the draft. And she was nearing 22. This was small town Missouri—the closer a woman got to 25, the worse her chances were. By all accounts available to her, Audrey just didn’t see it happening. 

In addition to that, she already led a head-butting match with her dad. Audry wanted to work, and was gaining ground toward her secretarial degree. By then she knew a world of hand me-down-shoes and only-so-much-butter. She also bore witness to what happened when the gears of the nation were left running by her own kind. Throughout the country she was seeing what women were capable of when the country was left in their hands. She understood the value of their work, tangibly, and she wanted to be a part of it. She was an independent mind under the authority of someone who saw no use for a working woman and, in protest, her father kept her under lock and key. Nonsense was not to be tolerated. It stands to reason that meeting new men would be an impossibility.

She failed to take two things into account, though. The war had just ended. And she was friends with Earl and Bob.

Earl and Bob happened to have a new friend, Jim.

Jim ended up in Missouri…eventually. His journey started in college. He left his hometown in Illinois to pursue a degree in fire protection engineering. That plan was interrupted pretty quickly, as he too fell victim to the draft. Thanks to government disorganization, too many men were selected, so he spent his first stint of military training at a college in New York. He utilized this particularly strained waiting period with his usual coping mechanisms—drinking buddies and math textbooks. A year after that he found himself operating bulldozers in Okinawa with no expectation that he would return in one piece or otherwise. Marriage wasn’t really on his radar. Why hope for something so sweet when you weren’t even certain about tomorrow?

Jim knew all too well that war waited for no one.

As it turns out, there was a tomorrow. And a few more. And more after that. On the unluckiest day in history, he was informed that he was going home. He even got to go in one piece. 

He spent his last year of college in Chicago, finishing his degree on the military’s dime. There he met a whole variety of people, in bars and churches alike. That’s the way Jim lived, searching out friends no matter the venue. Any given stranger who dared to sit next to him would have no idea what they were getting themselves into, but nevertheless they were usually trading life stories by the end of it. Still no ladies on the horizon, however. He had an awkward sense of humor that didn’t exactly earn him points in the intricate art of courting. It was stair-stepped and swirling, joining two far away concepts, often built on references to philosophers, literature, and farts. 

He was a little off the wall, but it made sense if you paid attention.

Jim landed in St Joe by way of a job offer that no man of good sense would turn down. He dutifully traveled southwest once more, and continued in his tradition of good friend-making. Some of those friends, as it happened, went by the name of Bob and Earl. Both were big fans of nonsense, so when Jim mentioned that he noticed one pretty face in particular up in the choir loft at church, they hatched a plan. 

Bob was very good at schemes, you know.

It was a crisp fall night. The Missouri summer burnt off all the heat and Halloween was just around the corner. Earl picked up his date, then Audry, then headed over to collect Jim. Jim was a little unsure—Earl had not exactly communicated which of the girls was supposed to be his for the evening but as he slid next to Audry, he held his hopes under his hat. They made light conversation. Jim asked Audry about her interests. Audry asked Jim about his job. Just before the sun started to set, they made it to their destination. 

A weenie roast, set up by Bob, for their Sunday school group. What a coincidence.

The weather was perfect, with golden leaves just starting to turn and a slight breeze that would give the bonfire a short burst of intermittent flame. The birds bedded down  and cricket chirps slowly began to dot the hillsides around them. A lovely watercolor of mango stained the westward skyline. Octobers are a balm for young hearts that way. A few people milled about, stopping every few minutes to dip a speared hotdog into the flames until it turned exactly crispy enough. Try as they might, Jim and Audry kept ending up on the same hay bale. He’d get up and fry her a marshmallow. She’d get up and put graham crackers and chocolate together. Then they’d return, heads bent together and a gleam in their eyes. She would peak up through the curtain of sudden shyness. He searched for the right words to offer such a pretty face. He came up short, and they settled on questions. 

“I see, and how is your mother’s garden this year?”

“What was it like to commute in New York?”

“Ok, but does your dad know what you’re up to tonight?”

“So, your mother still speaks fluent German? What does she say the most?”

“Have you heard the one about the mathematician and the rocket scientist?”

What a delight when she cracked a smile instead of rolling her eyes.

Earl and his date stole glances at a distance, stopping every once in a while to smirk at Bob. The night was too quick, ended by the coming starlight and a ride home. Jim made certain to walk Audry to her door, all the while racking his brain for something to say. He settled on Shakespeare: always a safe bet. As she opened the door he spoke, full of mirth and facetious romance:

“Goodnight sweet Princess. May flights of angels guide thee to thy rest.”

Audry was wise enough to know that Jim made for a better Horatio, and bid him a warm good-night. As they parted, Jim swore for generations to come that he heard a voice say clear as day:

“Jim? Jim. If you don’t marry that girl you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

Anyway, that’s the story of how my grandparents met at a weenie roast.

October 16, 1949.

The Escapists

Jim had a Bug.

That’s important, to start.  Not a computer virus, or a stomach flu. A Beetle, to be precise. His earliest driving lessons took place in his father’s VW bus, which were not considered complete until he could practically take the thing apart and put it back together again. It stands to reason that a version of brand loyalty was involved and very soon after, Jim was in possession of his current pride and joy: a 1966, red interior, white exterior, VW Bug. He can remember it to this day. It ran like a dream, pristine and impressive. A real find to be sure. That Beetle faithfully carted Jim all across the Kansas City area. He drove it from play rehearsal, to work at the shop, to the yellow house with a circle drive, to Aunt Emma’s house where his cousins were surely up to shenanigans.

It was a stick shift, which is obvious but also relevant to our story.

The night was snowy and cold. Jim was on his way home, just east of Swope Park. It wasn’t unusual for one of the cousins to keep good company in the passenger seat, and this time Ray took a turn. This was meant to be another mundane trip home after a long day. It was quiet, and they were alone on the empty roads. Even as a young driver, Jim’s instincts were pretty good on icy streets. Slow, but not slower than necessary. Try to anticipate slipping, but don’t panic. Take into account the temperature on bridges and exit ramps, and adjust. Be aware, but don’t hesitate. Certainty was your friend. This was Ogden’s boy, after all.

Unfortunately, black ice shows no mercy. Especially on a traffic circle.

The slick patch appeared out of nowhere, rising from its mysterious home to hunt it’s latest victim. It caught the tires and they immediately lost traction, thrusting them into a curve earlier than anticipated. Jim tried to adjust, but there wasn’t time. He only had seconds before they’d hit a curb and go tumbling into the grass. Alarmed, he took the worst course of action and hit the clutch on accident. The engine died. In turn, the two eerily cast straight into the traffic circle with a thin swish of tires and wide eyes. Jim tried everything he knew to do. He grabbed the wheel. He didn’t hit the brake too hard. He said all the prayers, and thanked the stars that at least there was no one else around.

….there was no one else around…right?

That’s when Ray looked up in horror and spied the red glow of unmistakable brake lights. A police car, dead ahead.

Some silence is a cathedral. Warm, peaceful, almost like a prayer among the ancient saints. It secures a person as they wait in the embrace of their surroundings and consider all realms of thought. This was not that.

No, no—this was the silence of panic. Humid and strained. Twisted and grappling. A tight quiet gripped the car as the two boys slowly grasped the enormity of what was happening. The Bug slipped into the chaotic slush of Meyer boulevard. They were quickly approaching their worst nightmare, and there was not a single thing they could do about it.

O Fortuna should have been playing in the background, if the universe had a better sense of humor.

Here’s the thing about 1966 VW Beetles…their engine was in the back. This one difference meant that instead of sliding straight, the car swung to the side. Ray’s passenger door was headed straight toward the police car’s taillights. Hell hath arrived, and it came in the form of an impending crunch that no self respecting young adult man could possibly explain.

Seconds seemed like an eternity and a half but eventually, they started to slow just a little bit. The tires finally found their friction on the pavement, tightening the space between the Bug and the policeman. It turned into a crawl—shambling closer, and closer, and closer. Jim shut his eyes as he tried to find the brake.

Everything stilled. Certain that he missed the inevitable scrape of metal against metal. Jim opened his eyes. Ray looked ahead of them in disbelief. Neither of them dared to say a word.

In front of them were the brake lights—exactly one inch from the side of their car. If they got out, the couldn’t even put a flat palm between them.

The boys remained frozen, waiting. Silence hung in the air like smoke, anticipating the worst. Surely the officer would get out any second. Moving even a muscle would turn them into wanted men. Any sound at all would be a dead giveaway, and the stakes had never been higher. They scanned the back window for any sign of movement, any shift of weight, any tilt of the head.

No one breathed.

And yet—nothing. 

They looked at each other, then back to the police car. Surely they did not just sneak up on an officer in the middle of the night, undetected?

Somehow in his shock, Jim found the will to reach for the key with trembling hands and turn it as delicately as humanly possible. As it turned over, Ray locked eyes with the silhouette ahead of them. Glancing down, Jim softly pushed the car into drive. They dared to glance at each other again, questions all over their faces, all while Jim creeped the bug forward. Without an inhale or an exhale, they eased out of the traffic circle, tensing every muscle.

And then they drove past the police car, turned left, and down the boulevard toward home.

Miracle of miracles—the officer never even knew they were there. 

There was no ticket, no arrest, not even a scrape or scuff to validate their tale. The expectation to hear sirens faded with every mile the boys put between the Beetle and the traffic circle. They didn’t even know if he’d noticed at all. When Ray mustered the courage to make a sound, he turned to Jim and said:

“What do you think would go through his mind…if he got out and saw…you know…random, chaotic tire tracks right behind his car?”

They burst out laughing. That question would remain unanswered to this day.

There the story lived, dormant until it was resurrected one day while Jim was teaching his daughter how to drive in the snow.

It’s necessary to learn how to slide properly, after all. For safety.

Anyway, that’s the story of how my Dad and Uncle Ray once evaded the cops.