Spiritual Heritage

My mother's father was a strong believer in Jesus and his atoning sacrifice.  He raised seven children during the Depression, my mother being the youngest at four, after losing his wife in childbirth with their eighth baby. He spent time reading God's Word, praying, and trusting God to see him through the difficulties he faced raising his family.  He passed this trust in God on to his children who shared their faith with the next generation.

My mother went to Pepperdine and Biola colleges where she received further Bible teaching.  Her favorite was an Old Testament class taught by J. Vernon McGee.  She said he made these passages come to life.  She married my dad and moved to the Wyoming ranch where fellowship and Bible study were not as readily available as her times in college.  They attended her family church thirty-five miles away, a General Conference Baptist, or Swedish Baptist church for a number of years. Her outreach in ministry was the Bible school she organized for the rural community families. Over the years my dad grew in his understanding of his walk with God and provided a strong spiritual partnership with my mother.  He taught a boys Sunday school class for quite awhile and served as a role model for these boys and for us as a family.

Going to church and being a Christian was an accepted part of my life.  At five, I asked Jesus to be my savior in response to many Bible stories I had heard and specifically in response to what my mother had shared with me.  I did not understand all that this meant at the time, but I did know that Jesus loved me and wanted me to accept his gift of salvation and eternal life. I continued to attend Sunday school and church, vacation Bible School and church camp. When I was eleven, I decided to be baptized and join the church.   In high school I participated in Youth for Christ where I had fellowship with other Christian teenagers and solid teaching from the leaders.  I was surrounded in my growing up years with this Christian influence.

When I went to college, there were many of my Christian friends on campus, and I participated in Inter Varsity Christian Fellowship where I made many new friends.  However, I lived in the dorm and was surrounded by many people who did not share my faith.  Their values were quite different from what I had grown up with and I began to wonder if my faith was based on truth or just tradition.  During my freshman year, I struggled with determining where I stood with my belief in Jesus. I came to the firm conviction that what the Bible said was true and I wanted to live my life based on my relationship with Jesus.

 I value the Christian heritage I have and  the impact it had on my growing-up years.  But I also realize that I had to make it mine--each generation does.  God does not have grandchildren.  Each of us must decide for ourselves where we stand in relation to Jesus' invitation to believe.  We have shared our faith with our children and now we have grandchildren.  I pray fervently for their walk with God and their salvation.

Summertime Activities

Summer on the ranch growing up meant swim lessons and music lessons in town for the cousins and our family.  My mom and two aunts would take turns being the chauffeur for the group. The younger kids would stay at home with the mom who wasn't making the trip to town. The five oldest kids all played an instrument:  Bob played the tuba, Dick the trumpet, I played the flute, Don the clarient and Dave the saxaphone.  In the summer, the band director wanted everyone to come to sectionals at which our individual instrument group practiced the music.  Since we all played a different instrument, we all had different times we needed to be at school.  Later my brother learned play the trombone and my sister the French horn, but they were not old enough at the time to be part of this adventure.

We all also took swimming lessons, which were sandwiched between the different music lesson times. The high school swimming pool was quite a step up from messing around in the muddy pond in the pasture after an occasional big rain. Needless to say, it made for a hectic schedule for the mom in town with five kids in one car (and we did not have SUVs or minivans). We all packed a lunch and ate in the park between lessons; fast food was not a way of life then. But the cousins loved being together since there was no school for socializing. Everyone was tired on the ride home and having been in the pool we were all a little damp squeezed together in the car with a trunk full of instruments (except the tuba which stayed at school).

When we were in high school and old enough to drive, we would go to town together to practice in the band for marching in the three Frontier Days parades. This happened in the evening when it was cooler and kids were more available.  Again, we enjoyed interacting with each other and with our friends from school, especially as teenagers we were quite interested in the opposite sex.  We would practice the music and marching up and down the shady tree-lined streets of the neighborhood around school.  Marching in a straight line and turning the corners with precision while playing your instrument took concentration.  I played the piccalo in the marching band and loved playing the Sousa marches, especially Stars and Stripes Forever.

I enjoyed the change of pace from ranch life and the chance to get be around other kids in the summer as I am sure even the kids in town did.

A Doherty Branding

The first summer after John and I met in Kansas City, I went home with him after the Junior Hereford Field day.  The Dohertys planned to brand at the Horseshoe ranch the next day.  Although I grew up on a ranch, I had never been much involved in the branding because calves were put through the chute and there were plenty of boy cousins to do the branding, so I helped with the lunch.  I was in for quite an education on this day!  The day began at the crack of dawn because they wanted to work the cattle before it got too hot. We all needed a  jacket in the chill of the morning, but what a beautiful time of day. All of John's brothers, sisters and cousins participated in the round-up and branding regardless how young, so there was quite a crew--ten kids plus his dad, uncle and grandfather. I was mounted on Smoky, a proven dependable horse, which was good for me because riding on the open prairie of Wyoming was a stark contrast to the rugged hills, rocks and brush of the New Mexico ranch.  I just held on over the rocks and brush and let Smoky wrangle the cows and calves as he was trained to do.

 Once the cows and calves were in the corral, they were separated.  Then the flanking crews went to work.  One guy would grab the hind leg of a calf and a second person would stand on the opposite side of the calf grabbing a front leg and lay the calf down kneeling on the neck and folding the leg up to its body.  The guy with the hind leg would stretch it out and put his foot on the other leg.  This put the calf in the position to be branded, vaccinated and if necessary castrated.  John and I were a flanking pair, so he caught the hind leg and I took the front leg. Some of the calves were quite big and a real challenge to catch and flank. All of this was a sensory overload-- cows and calves bawling for each other, dust stirred up by the cattle, the acrid stench of hair burned by the branding iron,  heat and sweat from strenous work, bruises from getting kicked by a calf, and manure on your jeans and boots from sitting on the ground in the corral.

At the end of the branding, I was exhausted, tired and dusty with manure stains on the back of my jeans, but I had the satisfaction of knowing I had passed the branding test.  It was my first of many experiences on the Doherty ranch!

What's in a Name

We all value our name and have special names for others we care for.  Our fathers each had a rather unique nicknames.  My father-in-law's name was John Franklin but he went by Tanky.  The story goes that his sister could not say his middle name Franklin so she called him Tanky, which has remained the name that everyone who knew him at all called him. In the broader family circle there were five members named John including him:  his father, his cousin, his son, and a nephew.  The family called his father Daddy John, he was Tanky, the community referred to his son a veterinarian as Dr. John, his cousin was John Albert and the nephew went by Johnny Jim.  When we had a son we knew for sure we did not want to name him John!  The family tradition of naming a child after the parent seemed like it had gone on long enough.

My father's given name was Marvin, but among close family he went by Squid, which is nothing close to his real name.   I'm not even sure of the origin of this moniker.  My mother and others referred to my dad by Squid, but his mother never would. Unlike my father-in-law's nickname that everyone used, my father's nickname of Squid caused confusion.  My mother would be talking about  her husband Marvin and then Dad would walk in and she would call him Squid leaving people scratching their heads in wonder.  So our kids have grandfathers named Tanky and Squid.

The women in our families seem to be in a quandary of what to be called.  Both of us have grandmothers named Mary and sisters with Mary as a first name as well, but who go by their middle names of Kathleen and Janette. So our sisters have gone through life being called by their first name, which they do not use. My grandmother Mary named her daughter Mary. My husband has two cousins named Mary after his grandmother in addition to his sister. My mother-in-law is Joan, but it sounds like Joann and her daughter is named Joann spelled like you would expect.  My husband has a great-aunt and an aunt named Charline. He also has an aunt Georgia who named her daughter Georgia.  So like with the men in the family, we decided on something different for our daughter--Jennifer.  I only knew one little girl named Jennifer when she was born.  When she went to college, I think there were six Jennifers on her floor in the dorm!

Names are a reflection of our heritage and our times and every family has its own treasures.

China Cups

My mother had beautiful ivory china plates rimmed in gold encircled with a lovely green wreath of leaves around the edge, but not cups and saucers to match.  However, the eclectic patterns of the various cups provided a special charm because each cup had a story.  My grandparents spent part of the winter in Arizona in their later years and each year Grandma brought her daughters-in-law a new china cup and saucer. One cup had pink, purple and white sweet peas twining around the cup, one blossomed with lily of the valley and another had magenta and pink roses adorning the sides with a rosebud peeking down the inside rim. One of my aunt's mother hand painted china and my mother had several of her cups.  These cups were more ornate in their shape and painted with delicate wild roses or lily of the valley.  One even had three golden curved legs and a broad open bowl. A deep yellow cup adorned with purple, burgandy and yellow pansies had gold trim with a gold interior.  One of mother's aunts gave her an elegant mocha bordered cup.  The favorite cup of all had a petite pattern of pink and blue cross-stitched  roses.  This dainty cup nipped inwards near the rim before fluting open wider giving a pleasing silhouette which also helped keep the coffee from cooling too quickly. Part of the fun at a family dinner was waiting to see which cup your coffee came in, and this cup was always the one each woman wanted to have because if it's delicate pattern and shape. ( I doubt the men took any note of which cup they were given.)

When I was a teenager, Grandma began bringing me a china cup and saucer as well.  I have one with dramatic red, pink and yellow roses, while tiny pink rosebuds decorate the entire outer surface on another cup. Because I love pansies, my daughter has given me several cups with these pretty purple and yellow flowers on the sides. She surprised me once on my birthday by flying in from Indiana bringing a hand-painted china tea pot, mug and teabag holder with pansies painted by a friend of hers at work.  From her world travels she also brought home a cup and saucer swirled with rich blue rose and gold from Estonia.  My sister gave me a demitasse cup in an elegant design from her visit to France, and I have several demitasse cups, one with violets and one with rosebuds from Winnipeg, Canada when I traveled with an aunt and uncle of mine.  When my husband's grandmother passed away, I received a diminutive hand painted cup with a spring green trim above a row of tiny pink roses from her collection with a note on the bottom indicating it had belonged to an aunt of hers.

My husband and I enjoy antiquing and I am drawn to the china cups I see as we visit our favorite antique stores.  Once I saw a cup just like the favorite cross-stitched one of my mother's and did not buy it, wishing later that I had.  The next time I saw that cup, I did not hesitate in my purchase, so now I have that favorite for my very own.  Even though it is not Mother's cup, it is just like it. Mom also gave me one of her hand painted cups, so the collection grows adding stories and memories.

 Below the china display shelf are pegs with mugs each telling it's own story.  One hand-painted by my aunt Gertie, who was an artist, with Mary and her little lambs and her pet name for me.  The mug is chipped and cracked but dearly loved. A black mug with a gold Mickey Mouse from Disney World reminds me of my son and daughter-in-law's honeymoon.  Another in navy blue with a gold Parker Ranch in Hawaii logo represents their visit to the ranch as part of her previous job responsibilities. A rugged pottery cup with Colorado mountains and a pretty flowered mug are mementos from my daughter's senior trip when I was the class sponsor. And finally a set of six artisan pottery cups in blue and brown swirled stripes from my son and daughter-in-law from her hometown of Salida, which I use for cappuccinos every Saturday morning. 

I delight in the beauty of each of these cups or mugs and am reminded of the people and places that I have known and visited. I am blessed to have so many wonderful memories.

Memories generation after generation

This weekend we celebrated our oldest grandson's seventh birthday. As usual, family and friends gathered for a meal, cake and ice cream and gifts. One couple's dog had caught a baby bunny that they rescued from the dog's jaws.  They brought the bunny to the party for the kids to see.  The little cottontail bunny's experiences spanned quite a range of surprises from a morning with its mother, out of the jaws of a dog, and into the hands of delighted children.  The bunny sat quietly in the hands that held him, from one child to another as they oohed and ahhed over his soft fur, his tiny nose that wiggled, and ears laid back.

After the older children had held the bunny, they were off to play with each other.  However, our youngest grandson, a two-year-old, was enamoured with the bunny and didn't want to part with him.  He insisted on holding the bunny delighting in his whiskers, his ears perking up, and his every move.  Occasionally I reminded him to hold the tiny animal gently, to which he responded he was just loving the bunny.  I suggested that he might love the bunny a little more softly.  A large bucket with hay held the bunny while we ate and opened gifts.  Our little one decided the bunny needed something to eat too, so his mom found a carrot and some fresh spinach to put in with the bunny.

The next day, a Sunday, the rabbit was still the focus of their attention.  Our three grandsons had the bunny  on their laps, or on the floor so he could scoot around between their outstretched legs.  They decided to build a little home for the rabbit out of giant legos.  The bunny didn't seem afraid just curious with all the new experiences.  They even asked and were give permission to take the bunny to church to show their friends there.

All this brought back memories of my childhood when Dad brought baby bunnies home for us to raise.  Our kids also had the same experience because Dad gave them a bunny he found while haying.  And now a third generation later, the children can experience the wonder of God's creation and care for it as well. 

Summer at Aunt Mary's

Every summer, my two older cousins and I spent a week with Aunt Mary, my dad's younger sister who did not have children at the time. Aunt Mary and my uncle lived on a farm  about 70 miles from the ranch, but the surroundings made it seem a world away.  The elevation dropped about 2,000 feet in that 70 miles and water enabled things to grow and prosper.  My uncle farmed irrigated fields of corn and sugar beets.  Huge old cottonwood trees shaded the house and  lined the irrigation ditch.  Green foliage lushness, water and shade--all such a contrast to the sun bleached windswept prairie of gramma grass growing on the treeless plains surrounding the ranch. We savored every minute of our time in this paradise.

We loved climbing the massive old cottonwood trees and because of the abundance of these trees, we each had a tree that we claimed as our own "house."  We nailed boards for steps onto the trunk to climb up to the massive horizontal branches. The view from high up offered a perspective of many areas of the farm, so we could observe the comings and goings of activity while concealed in the leafy branches. We spent hours in the trees shouting to each other, climbing around to different branches.  The spindly Chinese Elm trees at home in the windbreak couldn't offer such a hide-out.

Messing around in the water occupied hours of our time as well.  The large irrigation ditch had a board to cross and was deep and fast enough that my aunt did not feel comfortable letting us into the ditch.  But we made boats to send down the ditch and threw rocks to splash in the ditch.  We weren't used to moving water--any water at home was in a metal tank pumped by the windmill.

Aunt Mary made sure we had some special fun times while we were with her.  She usually took us into town to the swimming pool once during our time there.  Since we did not have an outdoor pool in our hometown, we basked in the sun-warmed water at the pool.  Once she even arranged for  us ride the train, consisting of the engine, one car and the caboose, from their small community into town about seven miles away. We felt special and enjoyed our week at her house for a break from the summer routine at home.