Potter County Journal: We Gather Together & A Tribute to My Grandfather

The final week of November began in typical November fashion. Monday morning was cold. The sun seemed to linger too long below the horizon as I waited for the day to begin. After scriptures and prayer, I went down to the barn. The stink of skunk was still heavy on the air. It stayed that way all week. It still stinks – the skunks retribution, a long-lasting reminder of its murder. But I haven't had another dead chicken, so suffering the stench is worth it.

I spent the bulk of the day on Monday working on the downstairs bathroom. It wasn't in my plans. It started with picking some dead leaves off the philodendron vine that grows on the wall in there and then escalated quickly. I went a bit crazy. When this house was built in 1869, it didn't have indoor plumbing. There was no downstairs bathroom until probably sometime in the late 1920s or early 30s. What is now the downstairs bathroom was created out of part of the dining room and kitchen pantry. It was updated sometime in the late 50's and that's how it has mostly remained. We've replaced the toilet and put in new floor tile, but that's about it. It's in an odd place, right off the dining room, that makes using the toilet uncomfortable when people are dining. You can hear too much through the wall. I started my cleaning frenzy with the cupboard. It accumulates things that get used once or never, bottles of shampoo and conditioner, hand lotions, and such things, that get pushed to the back of the cupboard and forgotten. I began by pulling everything out. I was amazed at what was lurking in the nether regions. I set it all out on the dining room table, assessed each item, kept some, threw a lot away, and then organized what remained. Then I painted the cupboard. That made the window sill above it look dingy, so I painted that too. And I kept on going and painted the inside of the bathroom door. Next I tackled the medicine cabinet. I emptied it and took out the glass shelves and washed them. The inside of the cabinet, which is very old, had peeling paint and a few patches of rust. I had a half-used can of white Rust-oleum spray paint in the woodshed, so I painted the inside of the cabinet. When it was dry, I put the shelves and their items back. Last of all, I scrubbed the sink, the bathtub, the toilet, and the floor. The bathroom looks about as good as an old bathroom can and I felt a great sense of accomplishment for doing something I hadn't intended to do.

The downstairs bathroom.

The philodendron on downstairs bathroom wall.

Kurt and Julie arrived home on Monday evening. They'd been gone since the end of October traveling and visiting family all over. Kurt said they drove a total of 6,000 miles. We're glad they are home again and in time to celebrate Thanksgiving with us.

Preparations for our Thanksgiving celebration began early in the week. We readied the guest room for Tabor and Rachel and put out beds in the big room upstairs for the grandchildren. We made food. Miriam spent Monday evening making a birthday cake for Hannah. She made an extravagant chocolate mousse/orange/raspberry cheesecake. At the Foster house, Sarah baked sourdough bread to be used in the turkey stuffing. I ground the cranberry sauce early on Wednesday morning to give it a day to mellow. It always tastes best the second day. Stacey made a pumpkin pie, a pecan pie, an apple pie, and a pumpkin dump cake.

Grinding cranberry sauce.

Thanksgiving pies.

Wednesday morning when I got up, I was surprised at how warm it was, 51°. I was surprised because by the end of the that day we were supposed to be in a winter weather advisory, with the temperature at 25° and snow expected. It had rained hard most of day before and was drizzling that morning when I went down before dawn to check my trap. It felt and smelled like spring – a nice but cruel jab reminding me that the cold days were only just beginning. The trap was empty. I looked in at the coop. Everyone was still up on their roosts. The guineas belted out a good morning welcome to me. I came back to the house and settled in for another day of preparing for Thanksgiving.

Good morning from the guinea pen.

The weather began to change just after noon. By then we'd reached a pleasant 54°, not bad for the end of November, but then around 2:00 the wind came roaring out of the northwest and with it came pelting, cold rain. By 2:30 we'd dropped to 41°. By the time I got back from doing the afternoon chores it was 37°. By the end of the day we were at 30°. It began to snow that night.

Wednesday was Hannah's birthday. The Fosters were here for dinner. We had pizza, which is our usual Friday dinner, but we knew Friday would be leftover day, so we moved pizza night to Wednesday. After dinner the Shilligs and Kuprovs came over to celebrate with cake and gifts. I indulged and had a tiny bit of the birthday cake. It was so delicious. The Thayns arrived later that night. The gathering was complete and the house roared into celebration mode.

Hannah's birthday.

Thanksgiving day dawned gray and cold. There was a thin crust of snow on the ground and a strong frigid wind blowing. I was the only one awake for several hours and then, starting with Russell, the house began to stir to life. Breakfast was sporadic as people drifted downstairs. The kitchen was busy with present needs and further preparation for the feast later on. We watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Watching the parade.

We gathered at the Foster's house at 2:00 for our feast – the Howes, Thayns, Fosters, Shilligs, and Kuprovs, plus the missionaries, twenty-one of us all together. The food was excellent. After dinner we sat and visited, played games, and did a jigsaw puzzle. There was a craft for the children to do. Then we had dessert. It was a fine day.

The food at our feast – applesauce, cranberry sauce, jello salad, turkey, sweet potato casserole, charcuterie, zesty carrots, mashed potatoes, rolls, two green bean casseroles, squash, dressing. gravy.

Table one – the Shilligs, Fosters, and missionaries.

Table two – Stacey, the Kuprovs, Thayns, and Miriam in the back.

Table three – Mabel, June, Hazel, Hannah, and wandering children.

Working on a craft.

Playing a game of Skull King.

Dessert – apple pie, pumpkin dump, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, See's candy, ice cream.

Finishing a jigsaw puzzle.

Friday morning we awoke to snow. It had snowed all day on Thanksgiving, but there wasn't much accumulation. That changed overnight. There was about two inches on the ground that morning and more coming down. It looked very wintry and entirely appropriate for the day after Thanksgiving. We spent most of the morning just taking it easy. At noon we all went down to Foster's for leftover lunch. I think leftovers are better than the actual feast. We had a great day together playing games. We did another jigsaw puzzle. Later toward evening we had a beautiful charcuterie board prepared by Kale and Sarah. So much good food. It snowed all day and was snowing harder as we drove home.

Friday morning.

June showing off another finished jigsaw puzzle.

The Friday evening charcuterie.

We had a nice surprise Friday as we were getting ready for bed. I have a plumeria plant, a gift from my brother-in-law John and his wife Delaina several years ago. It arrived as nothing but a thick stem, but has grown into a branched plant with big leaves. A few weeks ago, it began to form flower buds just at the time I had to bring it indoors. It doesn't like being indoors and several of the buds dried up and fell off. One of the remaining buds opened that night. It is a lovely fragrant flower. It makes me so happy to see it now with the snow and cold outside.

My plumeria in bloom!

Around midnight that night, after most of the house was abed, Rachel, who was still up, heard the roosters over in the Foster's barn next door raising a ruckus. She came down to report the disturbance and woke Stacey and me. Hannah, Miriam, and Hazel were still awake and came downstairs. We armed Rachel and Hannah with lamps and weaponry and they set off through the snow to investigate. They returned after fifteen minutes and reported that nothing was amiss in the barn. The two roosters apparently just decided to have a midnight crowing contest. The house settled back into repose. The Foster's roosters are very pretty, but one of them is very aggressive. I should say was aggressive. It did not live to see another midnight. He's in the freezer now waiting to become soup. No more crowing contests.

The Foster's coop at midnight.

Saturday was busy with people going here and there. Some went into town to the Christmas Market on the courthouse square. Some drove up to the Christmas tree farm so the Thayns could get a tree. Hannah, Stacey, and Miriam all work for Wending Creek in one way or another so we get our trees for free, which is nice. Some went to spend some time at the Fosters while others went back into town to see the second Wicked movie. Some of us stayed home. The Thayns left from the movie for home. With the Thayn's departure, the house returned to its normal subdued state. They will be back in a few weeks to spend Christmas with us. For most of the afternoon I was the only one home. I spent the time tidying things up. I got out all the boxes of Christmas decorations and when Stacey, Miriam, and Hannah got home, we decorated. The house looks festive. We just need our Christmas tree now.

The movie goers.

It's a cold and snowy Sabbath. Church was good. Sarah and Tosh were our speakers and they gave great talks. This being the Sunday after Thanksgiving, we sang Christmas carols in church today. Tomorrow is the first of December. We've come to the last days of the year. They will be busy days. December days are short and dark, but bright with celebrations, lights, and traditions. If we didn't have these things, it would be an unbearable month.

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A Special Tribute to My Grandfather

I took some time during the week to work on cleaning out and organizing one of my family history file drawers. I have a filing cabinet with two big drawers. The upper drawer contains files on my father's side of the family and the lower one, my mother's side. Over the fifty odd years I've been doing family history, I've accumulated a lot of material – documents, photographs, correspondence, maps, and more. My file drawers were so full, they could barely open and close. So I tackled the top drawer. Much of the stuff was unnecessary – old paper pedigree charts and family group sheets with information now stored digitally, handwritten research notes containing information that has been transcribed and recorded. I went through each file and got rid of superfluous material.

One of the treasures I came across while organizing was a handwritten seven page letter from my father to his parents dated March 21, 1958. He was twenty-eight years old. His parents were in their mid-sixties. I was just over a month old then and he does not mention me in the letter. He wrote the letter while away in Omaha, Nebraska, at a chiropractic symposium. In the letter he thanks his parents for all their sacrifices in raising him. He apologizes for taking them for granted. They were both chiropractors, as was my dad. They turned over their practice to him when they retired. It is a beautiful letter, written from the heart of a grateful son. Toward the end of the letter, he offers his parents the greatest thing he can in return for their love and sacrifice. My father joined the church in 1953 shortly after marrying my mother. His parents were not pleased. Here in 1958, he bears witness to them of the truth he has found in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and offers his hopes that they will accept the gospel. He wrote:

"We are taught that through the ordinances of the Church, Christ will reunite families in the world to come. I not only believe in this principle, I know it is true. It is unthinkable to me that I could be happy throughout eternity without my dear ones. It is my prayer that you will come to see what is offered by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that you’ll become a part of it and carry out the ordinances that will assure our being together forever."

My father baptized his parents later that year in July. I felt such happiness as I read this letter. It was a tender expression of his love for his parents. At the time he wrote it, his father was blind and suffering from advanced diabetes and his mother was in the beginning stages of Parkinson's disease. They were remarkable people. Today, in fact, marks the anniversary of my grandfather Howe's death. His name was Lawrence Evered Howe (we named our youngest son Josiah Evered after him). We always refer to him as Papa. He died on November 30, 1960, at the age of sixty-six. Ever since reading that letter, he has been on my mind even more than usual. I think about him a lot, perhaps because I live in a house that he once lived in, a few miles from the place where he was born in Genesee in 1894, and where he grew up in the now vanished village of Keech just up the road. I realize that I have now lived a year longer than he did. It makes me sad to think that there are only a few people alive now that have memories of him – my mother, my sister Hollie, and my two cousins, Micki and Mike. I do not remember him. I was only two years old when he died. But I know from others' accounts that he loved me and that has given me an impression of him, if not an actual memory, that feels like love.

I'm told that Papa was an easy going man. He had a sense of humor. Like all the Howes of his generation, he liked to tell stories. My aunts Esther and Eleanor, his sisters, were also great story tellers. They used to tell me stories about him. Aunt Eleanor once paid me a great compliment when, on a visit to her toward the end of her life, she told me that I reminded her of him, that I was like him in so many ways.

He was a gardener. He loved to grow things. I've always felt that somehow that love was transmitted genetically to me after skipping over my father. I've lived in places where Papa did and where he grew his gardens. The house we lived in on Bridge Street was his house first and, although mostly untended after his death, I played in the ruins of his garden there. I ate cherries, pears, and mulberries off the trees he planted. I feasted on the grapes that grew up the side of the house on the fire escape. I watched the hardiest of his flowers bloom year after year – the forsythia hedge, tulips, daffodils, crocuses, a rose of Sharon bush, peonies, and the beautiful red rose that grew on an arched trellis over the sidewalk. I knew that garden until I was ten and we moved away. It's all gone now, vanished without a trace under a parking lot.

The rose bush on Bridge Street as I knew it as a child.

I'm sure he had a garden here, where we live now, but I've never seen a picture of it. There might still be some remnants of the things he grew, but I don't know what they are. Maybe the old peonies that were here when we moved here, but probably not. This house, although it was his first, was always The Aunts House to me. But I think that, with all the gardens I've planted here, I'm sure I've grown things in the same places he once did. I like the thought of that.

In trying to pay tribute to him on the 65th anniversary of his death, I hardly know what to write. The best thing I can think of is to say that I loved his son, my father. I loved his wife, my grandmother, Nana, who died when I was thirteen. I love all my family that descends from him. And I love him. I will be overjoyed to meet him someday. We'll talk gardens and maybe plant one together in Millennial soil.