Next morning I opened the door to the deck outside to feed the birds. Grey and Calico galloped out. Jack stood at the doorsill looking doubtful. After a while he put a tentative paw on the sill. I had the impression he may have never been outside.
All in Family
Next morning I opened the door to the deck outside to feed the birds. Grey and Calico galloped out. Jack stood at the doorsill looking doubtful. After a while he put a tentative paw on the sill. I had the impression he may have never been outside.
Now what? Should I try to nurse her back to health? How would I do that? Maybe if I let her just rest she'd recover on her own. I left her, and walked back inside.
Many bales of hay fell to the lethal cast of my spear. I carried it everywhere. One day, when I was distracted by something or other, I leaned the spear against a shed. When I reached back to get it, the spear was gone. Then I heard a bang, followed by a scream.
I think everyone has had a feeling or impulse that didn’t seem to come entirely from themselves. "Isn't that just what Uncle-so-and-so would say"? Maybe it was something Grandpa, would do . . . or dad . . . or Mom.
They were farmers. Sharp pocket knives are to farmers as scalpels are to surgeons. Both surgical and agricultural operations rest on sharp edges of steel.
A thousand jobs on farms and operating tables depend upon precision-honed blades.
They came to the Monastery as outcasts from the world. I thought of them as penitents seeking salvation. They didn't think they did a single thing to be penitent about.
A handful of written records, a scattering of family stories and a boxful of faded photos. Scant information that masks more than is revealed.
They were supposed to meet at Union Station in Kansas City. Aunt Maudine waited, and waited. Hours passed. Finally, sadly, she left for home. Dad showed up much later. Don’t know why, certainly not willingly.
The hill was the one upon which sat the farmhouse of my Shipley Grandparents. The ruins of the old log cabin were an easy walk down the hill.
That sums up my Mom. She was always busy at something. She would have made a first-rate Executive Secretary.
Friday, March 10, 1933, Monroe Iowa, 8:00 A.M. - Five rounds from a pump-action 12 gauge shotgun took the lives of four souls. Each died from close-range blasts that splattered blood, flesh and bone.
I sat in drowsy reverie on the stoop of the little shed that was now a chicken house.
It’s the middle of May, the lilacs along my driveway are in full bloom and, as always, they remind me of Aunt Arlene.
I believe Steve King was the first to take the trail north in search of fortune.
By the time I was 6 or 7 years old most of my Shipley relatives had moved to someplace other than Mt. Moriah.
My Aunt Maxine has lived her whole life in the simple straightforward manner of children, animals and saints.