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Category: Family (Page 4 of 4)

Crist Story Continued

In 1767, George Heinrich Crist married Elizabeth “Betsey” Collings, sister to my fifth great grandfather, William Elston Collings.

George was the third of six sons of Johanne Nicolaus Heinrich, the original author of the account book from which I have been quoting, one of five brothers who traveled to America from Germany.

In 1778, Nicolaus reported that he was setting aside the account book as “it hurts to bad to write in it.” He may have been suffering from arthritis or from age (he was 62) or he may have been speaking of both physical and emotional pain, as life had been hard on him and his family.

Son George, who took over the writing of the account book after returning from service in the Revolutionary War, reports a few months later about an event: “… Pa was not well enough to take a part. His leg wound and the hard work he had to do while we was gone to war took its toll on him and Ma too.”

On February 12, 1783, five years after Nicolaus gave up the writing of the account book, George wrote: “We buried our parents today. Ma died the day before Pa…they died with pneumonia. What a loss and we will feel it for a long, long time.”

Thankfully, George was a good steward of the family account book, so we have a continued fair account of the Crist family, now directly related to my own Collings family as a result of George’s marriage to Betsey Collings.

In May of 1778, George wrote that: “Me and Nicholas and Henry want to explore the land in Kaintuck that Daniel Boone keeps talking of. He says there is thousands of acres of land waiting to be claimed. Plenty of wild game and wild horses and that the land will grow anything. The Indians are worse there but we think with enough men it would be safe enough.”

I’m sure in the passage above that George referred to himself and his brother Nicholas. I believe Henry to be George’s nephew, his brother Nicholas’ son.

This Henry was quite the character and he deserves a little sidebar in the story of the Crists and their relationship to my family, the Collings and the Richeys. At the time of George’s account book entry, his nephew Henry would have been 14 or 15 years old.

We have to be careful in our study of genealogy when trying to guess or attribute motive to our ancestors. We don’t really know why they chose to travel to the areas they did or why they settled in the areas they did or even why they undertook some of the adventures in which they found themselves.

On May 26, 1778, George reported: “Henry, Moore, Spears, Brown, Patton, Graham, Sanders, Green, Thomas, Shaw and about six others went to a meeting and after it was over they decided to go to Kaintuck. Daniel Boone says that ‘A man that stays in the valley always wonders what is on the other side of the mountain, he can guess but never knows for sure.’ So they decided to see for their self.”

We know what brought them to the area around what was to become Bullitt Co. Kentucky…salt.

To understand this, you must understand that in those days, food preservation, mainly the preservation of game, was vital to the survival of the settlers. And in those days, that meant salt was nearly worth its weight in gold.

Bullitt’s Lick was part of a concentration of salt, ranging from Bardstown Junction, Kentucky in the south, to across the Salt River to just north of present-day Fairdale, Kentucky, along the eastern side of the “Knobs” of the region. The salty streams drew deer, buffalo and other desirable game to obtain the salt they required in their diet, and hunters learned that not only were those spots great hunting grounds, but they could boil away the water to produce the great quantities of salt needed to preserve meat for storing through the winter.

Transporting salt over the mountains from the east was difficult and expensive. Being able to produce salt on the spot where hunting was most successful ensured the salt licks of Kentucky would become the new hot spot for speculators and entrepreneurs.

First came the surveyors, then the agents grabbing up all the land around the creeks and streams, then the actual workers who leased land to set up the saltworks.

Salt was extracted by boiling water in 100 pound kettles above a trench of fire. As the water evaporated from the heat, salt crystals resulted. Eventually, salt produced in and around the area was sold and shipped into the Illinois and Tennessee Territories and sent downriver to New Orleans.

Henry Crist, while still in his teens, saw the possibilities when he and his father first came to the Kentucky Territory. At that early age he became a land scout or “land locator” for a wealthy man named Jacob Myers, who eventually laid claim to most of the Kentucky Territory. As a result of his work for Myers, Henry obtained rights to some of the land he scouted.

At the age of about 20, Henry and a man named Solomon Spears bought out another man’s claim at the site called Long Lick.

In 1788, while supplying that claim, Henry and Solomon encountered a large band of Indians and fought for their lives in the Battle of the Kettles.

Next week, I’ll tell you that story.

Revolutionary War

If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ll remember I’ve been following the adventures of a family named Crist who came to America in 1738. This family is closely tied with my own ancestors, the Collings family and I managed to find some very interesting accounts of life in those early days of our country based on the writings of Johann Nicolaus Crist who was given an account book by his father at the time Nicolaus and his brothers left for America.

When I last shared his adventures with you, Nicolaus had just returned from the Battle of Fort Necessity also known as the Battle of Great Meadows, where he received a very serious wound that nearly cost him his leg.

The leg wound that Nicolaus sustained affected his ability to work for the rest of his life and in his journal entry of August 5, 1754 he said, “I am lucky to have my sons.”

Nicolaus and Catherine had six sons and lost one infant daughter, obviously a painful loss as Nicolaus celebrated the marriages of three of his sons on May 7, 1763 by stating “Catherine and me finally got the daughters we never had (when) three of our sons was married yesterday. John Jacob married Regenah Cartmell, Nicholas Heinrich Jr. married Sarah Cartmell and Philip Henry married Rachel Cartmell. Rev. Henrie Dreher performed the wedding ceremony in the same Lutheran Church where Ana Catherin and me married.”

My Collings family enters the story as Nicolaus wrote on March 5, 1767: “Our fourth son George Heinrich married Elizabeth Collings today in the Lutheran Church where we got married. She was fifteen years of age today. Rev. Henrie Dreher performed the wedding Ceremony. Me and Elizabeth’s Pa, William Edward Collings growed up together and come to America on the same ship. He married Anne Elizabeth Nowlin a cousin to my Catherin. We had a feast, danced to good German music and played games all day.”

There are some aspects of this entry I don’t understand…William Edward Collings is shown in most of my research as having been born in America of English heritage. Still there is no doubt his daughter Elizabeth married George Crist and we have also been able to document that William Edward Collings was in fact married to Anne Elizabeth Nowlin.

History and genealogical study can be a very interesting and puzzling pastime!

Nicolaus and Catherin’s remaining two sons were married in 1769.

Life seemed good for the families, but harder times were ahead. December 24, 1776, Nicolaus wrote: I guess that I am more scared now than I was coming across the ocean to America. We have six sons in Washington’s Continental Army. Catherin and me are doing the best we can to take care of our daughters and grandchildren. Everyone is working hard from day break until dark trying to keep things going. We have seen bad times but it is worse now. Our food that we have stored is low. It seems that every one around us is in bad shape. The only thing that we can do is pray that it will get better and soon be over. Me and Catherin are so tired and scared, not for ourselves but for our loved ones.

The Revolutionary War was a heroic fight by a young nation to win freedom from England, but it was a hard time for those whose day to day life was affected not only by the shortage of goods from the outside world, but the fact their very farms and fields became the battlefields of the war.

All six of the Crist sons likely entered the war as militia, which was something like our National Guard is today, not fulltime soldiers, but citizen soldiers who took up arms to supplement regular army forces to defend home and country. Militia usually committed to two-year enlistments.

In the days of the Revolutionary War, communication was impossible, and Nicolaus and Catherin endured the hardships of supporting themselves and the families of their sons as best they could without knowing the fate of their boys. Catherin worked to teach the grandchildren because they recognized education was important. In the words of Nicolaus, “They need to learn to read and write and arithmetic so bad. If they live through all this.”

By early 1778, his old war injury, the stress and strain of the current war and the uncertainty about the fate of his family was wearing hard on Nicolaus. At age 62, “I am putting my Account Book up. It hurts to bad to write in it. Some of our neighbors have lost sons in the war. Catherin lost her parents in 1749 and June 1750 I got word from Germany that my parents had died in February that year with pneumonia and we lost our little daughter and all that hurt. But our sons that we have raised all these years, I truly do not know. We do not know if our sons are dead or alive. They could be somewhere wounded in the cold with no shelter. We do have a shelter and fire to keep us warm and dry and food to eat. It has been so cold with sleet and rain and snow. It is so hard on their wives and children not knowing if they will see them again or not. The only thing that we can do is pray that they will be sent home to us safe and not be wounded and mangled for life that the day will be soon.”

Thankfully, Nicolaus’ prayers for his family were answered. All six of his sons returned to their families, and his fourth son George, husband to my ancestor, Elizabeth Collings, took up the duties of writing in the Account Book, so the adventures of the Crist family along with my Collings family could continue to be passed down through the generations.

Stay tuned for more adventures!

Home – The House

Tools of a carpenter

I was about eight years old when Dad started building The House. Mom was expecting their third child and she was tired of moving. In their married life of 9+ years, she’d moved almost that many times, for whatever reason. We’d lived in trailers, tiny houses, rentals. I can remember some of the places.

There was the tiny trailer where I encountered The Big Puddle.

There was the four room concrete block house where I know for a fact there is a suitcase key in the crawl space, because I’m the one who wanted to see if it would fit through the crack in the floor.

There was the larger house with a long lane and a creek down at the bottom of a steep hill. One summer a group of us decided we would “sled” down the hill on an old piece of tin roofing. I went down the hill, but the tin did not. I still have the scar. I had chicken pox in that house and started school from there.

But when Mom got pregnant with our third child, she wanted a real home so Dad, an accomplished carpenter, bought an acre from his Dad’s farm and determined to build a house for us.

First, he built a concrete block, flat roof, one car garage, and we moved into that until he could finish the house. There was barely room to walk around what furniture we had, but I spent most of my time outside, so I didn’t really mind. My brother was two, he didn’t know any better.

The house took shape in an orderly manner, and I took great interest in all the details of the construction. The first walls were just wooden stakes with string stretched between, then there were trenches dug along the strings. The trenches were filled with concrete and Dad told me those were footers. On the footers, he started laying the block foundation.

Under construction

I loved every moment of watching that house grow. I thought I helped. We hammered nails into scraps of lumber, stacked broken concrete blocks and pieces of brick. Balancing on the floor joists, Dad showed me which room would be mine, and I thought it was huge. I loved the metal boxes in the walls that would become the electrical outlets because the round punchouts where the wire ran through became a fortune in play money.

Dad had always worked in construction, so building a house was second nature to him. As a carpenter, he could lay a couple of courses of concrete blocks for a foundation but he was not a bricklayer. When it came time to lay the outside brick walls of our house, he hired a professional for one day to come show him how. He and the bricklayer worked side by side all that day, spending considerable time on the corners which were a little tricky. After that, Dad did the rest.

I’ve always loved that about that house…that I watched it come to life in his hands.

The house was not quite completed when I came home one rainy day from my grandparents’ house to find all our furniture out in the yard between the garage and the house. Mom was on the warpath. You see, the flat tin roof of the garage was an engineering disaster. It leaked like a sieve and some days there weren’t enough pans to catch the water and have supper, too.

My sister was only a couple of weeks old and on this particular rainy day, her basket happened to be directly under one of the leaks. That was it. Mom declared we were moving into the house, finished or not. On that day, the house became home and a constant “work in progress.”

The House – the early years

Two more sisters were born over the next few years and I guess you could say we lived happily ever after in that house…at least, we were as happy as any normal family I’ve ever known. My brother and I saw the house built from the ground up and my sisters never lived anywhere else until they left for their own grownup homes. We grew up in that house, we went out into the world from there.

We called it The House as in: “I’ll meet you at The House…I’ll leave the book for you at The House…I’m here, I’m at The House.”

We sold the house this year. We’ve all been away from it for longer than we lived there, but Mom and Dad lived in it for the rest of their lives. Dad died in 1998 and Mom lived there until she passed in 2016, always insisting she would “never move again.” She never did.

The House – Our Home

There are a lot of memories around that house. I hope the new owner appreciates that a family lived there, grew up there, that the house was built with loving hands. There are places the builder’s hammer may have slipped, where a door might sag or stick and Mom swore it never got finished once we moved into it, but if it wasn’t a perfect house, it was a perfect home.

I hope the new owner appreciates that and I hope that new family makes a happy home and many memories there.

I Think — I Remember

For a long time, I thought I’d invented something I called genetic memory, but then I found out it’s a thing, this memory we are born with. Scientists call it epigenetics, and they get all caught up in trying to describe and explain it in scientific terms, but here’s what I know that it is –

Working with one’s hands, surrounded by the smell of good leather…

The other day, I was with two of my sisters when one said she wanted to stop by the leather shop to pick up a suitcase that had been repaired. As we pulled into a parking space, she started to ask if we wanted to wait in the car, but my other sister and I were already opening the door to the shop. Miss out on a chance to breathe in the smell of all that leather? No way would we wait in the car.

I have leather workers on either side of my family tree, a grandfather and a two times great uncle. They worked with leather every day, repairing harness, cutting out and sewing together shoes and boots. There’s no way I can explain how I feel when I feel and smell good leather. I love leather chairs, leather computer bags and backpacks, leather seats in my car and when I’m not wearing sneakers, I’m wearing leather shoes.

I think my love of leather is a genetic memory.

I’ve heard people tell about an unexplained feeling of “being home” when they visit an area they know they have never before visited, others who can’t tell you why but are terrified of black dogs or being on open water in a boat or walking across a bridge. It seems like our fears, our life’s desires, our prejudices might be…must be embedded in our being. How do we know things we never learned?

There’s a theory that child prodigies are channeling genetic memories. How else would a 10-year-old Ruth Lawrence have the knowledge to rank first of 530 candidates sitting the exam for entrance into Oxford and go on to graduate at the age of 13? …or Karl Benz, the founder of Mercedes-Benz pass the entrance exam for mechanical engineering at the University of Karlsruhe (in Germany) at the age of 15? …or Shirley Temple a professional actor and dancer win an Academy Award by the age of seven?

This area of Kentucky and Indiana holds nearly all of my ancestral memories.

My own genetic memory is more mundane…that love of the smell and feel of leather, the feeling of both peace and anxiety that flows over me when standing by the Ohio River, the love of place that I have always felt in the Lexington/Bardstown area of Northern/Eastern Kentucky.

I believe all of those can be explained by genetic memory. My ancestors traveled down the Ohio with all their belongings on a flat-bottomed boat sometime in the mid 1700’s and settled in that same area of Kentucky that I have always loved. In the early 1800’s they moved on into the area of southern Indiana that I now call home. I never knew the facts of these events until I began studying my family history, but I have known the facts of these feelings all my life.

If there is a lesson to be learned here…well, there might be many lessons. Maybe more important than learning to listen to our “gut” feelings about things we don’t know how we know, maybe we should be aware of what genetic memories we want to pass on to our future generations. Maybe we should be a little bolder in the face of our fears; work a little harder on being a kinder, gentler person; try to develop new skills and gain new knowledge; seek new frontiers.

Maybe it isn’t just our children who are our responsibility, but the entire line of those who come after. Maybe the future of not only our ancestors, but of the world to come, really does rest on our shoulders and depend on what we learn and do every day.

Coming to America – part 2

You may remember a few weeks ago I introduced you to five young men, the Crist brothers who left their home in Germany in 1738 and traveled to America.

I “met” these young men while doing some genealogical research into my family and a significant historical event in which the Collings branch of my family played a major part. More about that later. For now, I want to tell you a little more about the Crist family.

Remember, Nicolaus Heinrich Crist kept an “account book” given to him by his father when he left for the New World. Nicolaus wanted to tell about their trip “so if we die they will know who we are,” which I found very touching. The boys did not die, they reached America after a long and arduous journey.

Here’s where I begin to have problems in my research. Crist named his brothers and he also listed several other young men who traveled with them, saying “There’s fifteen of us that knows each other we have labored – fought and laughed together all our lives.” One of the names he listed was William Edward Collings.

William Edward Collings is my 6th great grandfather, and I knew from other research that the Crist family and the Collings family had a long history together, but this record does not match with what I know.

My William Edward Collings was reportedly born in Somerset Co., PA in 1724. His father’s name was Zebulon and he was also born in America, so the account of William Edward Collings coming to America with the Crist boys confuses me, and I’m still working on that.

The facts I can confirm are this…the Crist boys did come to America and Nicolaus Heinrich did keep an account book that proves to be correct in many other details, so we’re going to follow this thread. Our families did come together at some point, because Nicolaus’ son George married William Edward Collings’ granddaughter, Elizabeth, called Betsy, and that we can confirm. The inconsistencies are what make genealogy so fascinating!

Throughout ensuing years, the same names keep cropping up in our family history even as these pioneers moved from landing spot into Pennsylvania/Virginia, Kentucky and Indiana. Crist, Collings, Richey, Cauffman, Biggs, etc. Throughout history, groups of people tended to live together, struggle together, fight together and stay together as they traveled to new parts of the country.

Setting aside how these families got to know each other, they all ended up (or began their new beginnings) in an area of the new world that is very confusing. There is a place on our modern map of America where Pennsylvania, Virginia and West Virginia sort of touch. Back in the 1700’s the boundaries in that area were very fluid and one might have ancestors living in Pennsylvania one year and Virginia the next without ever physically moving. The names of counties sometimes got moved with the boundaries…sometimes new counties were created from old counties that disappeared completely.

This is the area where my Collings branch and the Crist family became neighbors, strong friends and eventually family. They lived in this area through the troubled years leading up to the Revolutionary War and the men of both families fought from here in the French & Indian War and later for the independence of the colonies.

Once again, the account book of Nicolaus Heinrich records the action. After arriving in America on September 15, 1738, by November 24 of that same year, he writes: “I saw and talked to my wife to be today. She is more beautiful than my mother if that is possible. Did not tell her that she was going to be my wife.”

Just three months after arriving in this new world, on Christmas Day of that year, the Crist brothers were invited by Sir John Henry Nowlin, Esq. to share in a Christmas feast and at that time Nicolaus asked Sir John for the hand of his daughter Catherine in marriage. Sir John responded favorably and with a hearty handshake the deal was done. The young couple married on January 25, 1739.

By October 29, 1739, the 23-year-old Nicolaus and 19-year-old Catherine had started their family by welcoming their first son, John Jacob.

Over the next few years, the couple added five more sons, lost a daughter at birth, and suffered the tragedy of Catherine’s mother, father, two brothers and a sister drowning when the raft they were taking down river to visit family broke apart in rough water. In Germany, Nicolaus’ parents both died of pneumonia.

In 1754, Nicolaus went to fight in the French Indian War and came home wounded. He wrote: “I came home today. I was wounded in the leg at the Battle of Great Meadows [aka Battle of Fort Necessity]. I am lucky to have my sons. It looks like I might lose my leg, it is real bad.”

He did not lose his leg, but suffered from that serious injury for the rest of his life.

In 1767, one of their sons, George Heinrich, married Elizabeth Collings who was the sister of my 5th great grandfather William Elston Collings, son of William Edward Collings.

By 1776, all six of Nicolaus and Catherine’s sons were fighting in the Revolutionary War.

Stay tuned. It only gets more exciting and yes, there will be drama and tragedy.

Coming to America

Sailing vessels such as this brought many to America in the 17th and 18th century.

On March 1, 1738, all five brothers of the Crist family, boarded a ship in Rotterdam, Amsterdam and set sail for America.

We can’t know for sure why they left Germany although we do know that in the 1700’s thousands of Germans traveled to America for both economic and religious reasons. In addition, there was a fair amount of real commercial wheeling and dealing going on.

Earlier settlers were traveling back to Europe to purchase supplies and goods for resale in America. Ship owners and captains, anxious to keep their ships full and in constant use, would promise these merchants (who became known as “newlanders”) free passage and/or shipping if they recruited passengers for the trip back across the Atlantic. From 1735 to 1737 the numbers of Germans traveling to America increased from 268 to over 1500. Business was booming and in 1738 the numbers continued to grow.

The Crist brothers, John Jacob (24), Nicolaus Heinrich (22), Peter Ludwick (20), Philip Henrie (18), and Michael Jorge (17) may have set off for America for the adventure of it or they may have gone for riches and glory. The reasons for emigration in those days were as varied as the number of emigrants.

We’re lucky, though, that the Crist family had a real sense of the magnitude of their decision and journey. Before they left their home in Germany, their father Jorge Nichlaus Crist gave them each an account book, and son Nicolaus kept a detailed account of their days at sea. In fact, he kept his account book all his life turning it over to his son in later years, and while the Crist family are not  direct descendents of my family, they are related by marriage. This account book has given my family some insight into our history while recording some very historic times and events.

On March 2, 1738, Nichlaus wrote of their second day at sea: “It was cold and dark last night – so many became ill – it was stormy – high winds and heavy rains. The vessel was rocky.”

The routes the ships took to America were varied. Many of the Germans left from Rotterdam, Amsterdam and stopped off at some port in England to further provision and pick up any other travelers before setting off across the open ocean.

On May 10, 1738, the journal reads: “The vessel smells of stench. We are stopping for supplies tomorrow. I hope they will stop long enough to clean and air the vessel.”

Two months on the ship and they had not even really started across the Atlantic. Do you begin to get a picture of what travelers to America endured? Well, read on…

May 14, 1738:I am going to write in my account book about me so if we die they will know who we are. There’s fifteen of us that knows each other we have labored – fought and laughed together all our lives. Now it looks like we will cry and likely die together.”

He lists his brothers and eight of the others who are traveling with them, then says of his parents, Jorge Nichlaus and Anna Crist, “…I wish they was here, they would know what to do and it would be better.”

On the 14th of May, the ship set out to cross the Atlantic.

August 12, 1738: “I wish I was home. Peter and Philip and Michael does too but John Jacob thinks because he is oldest that he can not show his real feelings. We are all sick, Michael is real sick but we can not do anything to help him.”

August 28, 1738: It is so hot during the day and the smell is terrible. Every body has dysentery. We have lost many lives. I wonder if we will make it to America.”

September 15, 1738: We landed in America yesterday. It felt so good to set, walk and lay on the dirt in the land that we had all dreamed of being able to live to see. Our prayers was answered. I cried myself to sleep as did many others. The air smelled and tasted so good. I only know one thing that I do not ever want to get on another ship for the rest of my life.”

Their journey took five and a half months. The journal gives us just the barest idea of what these young men endured to come here. Estimates of the deaths that occurred during the wave of emigrants traveling in 1738 range from 1,800 to 2,000 souls, victims to various diseases, such as typhus, or starvation, or shipwreck.

I have more of this journal and as I said earlier, it plays some part in the history of my family, so you can expect to meet up with some other members of the Crist family in future posts.

Seeking the Promised Land

My great-grandpa, first generation in that branch born in the US.

At the risk of trivializing what’s going on in our country today, I have been spending some time lately thinking about current events on a more personal level. Recently I have been doing some genealogical research which has led me to a discovery about my very presence here in the US, and secondly, I’ve come to understand “catch and release” on a very personal level.

First, the fact is that I (and my family) may be here under questionable circumstances. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is on entering the country in a manner that is not entirely legal, and maybe that has passed for my family, it’s just that I can’t help smiling a little at the audacity of my ancestor before being a little embarrassed about the way he got us here.

It all started when my great-great-grandfather sort of lied about why he wanted to leave his home country by telling the officials there that he wanted to come to the United States to fetch his brother back home so they could both fulfill the military duties they owed their Fatherland. He swore an oath he would not renounce his citizenship while he was gone.

See, the thing is, he lied. Not only did he renounce his citizenship, within 6 months of arriving here, he applied for citizenship to the United States. Now, maybe by applying, he was legal as far as the United States was concerned, but he was here based on a lie and he was mostly trying to avoid serving in an army he did not support. I’m not real sure if that is legal grounds for asylum. While it is true that I was born on US soil, and my ancestor (who will remain nameless, just in case someone decides to look into this case) did marry a woman who was a US citizen, you can see where I feel just a little uneasy about judging anyone who wants to come to the US for a better life.

Now the “catch and release” part of this story has nothing to do with my ancestry, but I have some critters in my yard that don’t belong there. They are criminal and they engage in criminal activity and I have begun a campaign to remove them by trapping them and relocating them to a place I think is much better for them.

The problem is that sometimes traps don’t always catch what we expect. The little thieves that I am waging my war against are chipmunks (so cute, right?). They eat my birds’ food, they dig up anything I plant because apparently roots are delicious, and they are trying to move in under my home where I am sure my wiring and my very walls look like natural resources to them.

So, I set a trap. Now I’m not a bad person. I don’t intend to kill them. My plan is to move them to the country…way off on the other side of the river. Good luck to them trying to return to their families! Not my problem, right? Hopefully, one by one, I’ll move their entire families to the general neighborhood where the first two went, they’ll reunite and live happily ever after.

The first day of trapping went well. Got one of the little critters and took him for a drive.

The second day was a totally different animal…literally. Rolled out my door and down the steps to inspect my trap and came face to face with a VERY upset possum! Now, I’m a country girl, so I have a little knowledge of animals and I know this chipmunk trap I am using could not hold a full-grown possum, so obviously this little guy was a youngster, but he had learned the mad possum hiss which is pretty intimidating, whatever the size of the possum.

I made a very quick and well-advised retreat to think over my options. I watched from a safe distance as he reached his strangely humanoid little hands through the cage and quickly decided I did not want to wrestle with him for the handle, nor did I want to travel with him in an enclosed vehicle! We have people for that, so I called Animal Control.

Long story – short…I don’t know where they took this guy. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? I think the phrase is: “…not in MY back yard.”

If you want to draw some analogies from my stories, you are welcome to make of them what you will, but in the future, when I sit out on my deck drinking my coffee, I hope to see a yard that serves as a haven for me and does not contain any vandals or alien creatures…I’m just not sure that’s possible.

I have the distinct feeling that my yard is some other creature’s “better life.”

Drivin’ Dad’s Truck

Note: I wrote the following back in 2008 after losing my home and vehicles to the catastrophic Columbus Flood of 2008. I thought this might be a nice tribute to share this Father’s Day, 2018 to recognize the 10th anniversary of that flood…and of course, as a memory of my dad, Leon Nicholas.

Yesterday I borrowed my dad’s truck.

After Dad died, with no particular discussion, our family decided to keep his truck to be used by any of us who just needed it for a few days for whatever reason. There should be no shame in asking for it, so I’m not sure where my reluctance comes in…maybe the natural reluctance of an adult child to ask for a parent’s help in any way.

Climbing into my dad’s truck reminds me of being a small child and crawling into his lap. The truck is a big ol’ full size pickup and entering requires climbing. I grab the huge well-worn steering wheel and launch myself upward. Once inside, I am welcomed by nubby soft cloth upholstery and the smell of my dad, a mix of honest workingman sweat, a lifelong tobacco habit, gasoline and old garage smell, Old Spice and maybe just a hint of one or two other types of alcohol.

My dad was a big man, not just to me as a child, but to others as well. His family’s name for him was Guy, but his nickname to the outside world was Nick, and somehow over the years, he became Big Nick to all who knew him. He was a jack of all trades, able to do anything to support his family…build houses, operate heavy equipment, lay asphalt. He built our house, the one I think of as home, when I was seven or eight — built it almost  single handed, a carpenter learning brick laying and electrical installation in the process.

Dad bought this truck sometime around the time he retired. He bought it brand new “off the lot,” a rare act in those days and I’m not sure, but I think he also bought it “straight out” which is Hoosier for “paid cash.” He loved this truck. He loved the bigness of it, the red-and-whiteness of it, the chrome of it.

The truck I’m driving today reminds me of his early years as a workman because it’s a workman’s truck. It has fog lights and a toolbox and improvised carpeting he made from cut up commercial door mats. The big bench seat can seat 3 people comfortably, but 4 sweaty laborers could get to a job site by squeezing in and clutching their thermoses tightly. The truck has an automatic transmission, something my dad really thought was essential and miraculous as his aching joints and muscles began to cause him chronic problems…no more jamming in the clutch and working the gearshift to find a gear that worked. How he would have loved to have this truck back in his working days.

The one real luxury he allowed himself when he bought the truck was the air conditioning, but it’s less than perfect now and I find myself cranking down the two front windows, prying open those little wing thingys to deflect the wind from my face and just feeling the road blow by me.

The truck is sort of a visual experience, and I see heads turn at the sight of this big old red and white truck, decked out with chrome running boards and chrome bed rails, driven by this short, somewhat sturdy, 50 something…well, you get the picture! I feel like my head is barely visible behind the steering wheel.

Probably the most remarkable thing about the truck is the huge silver ram’s head hood ornament. From the front, it appears to be only the ram’s head with dramatically curved ram horns, but from my vantage point in the driver’s seat there’s the view of an anatomically correct (if somewhat proportionately challenged) ram’s butt. You can point that ram head/butt at the white line on the side of the road and motor on, drifting a little from time to time. You have to let it drift, because if you try to force it the truck gives you attitude and you can wind up fighting it left and right. Just let it go, the best way to drive it is to just sit back and enjoy it.

Drivin’ Dad’s truck takes me back to days when we were all stronger, when our needs were simpler, when comfort and joy could be taken in feeling the wind of the highway while riding high in a big old truck.

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