Franklin County, Nebraska

For Another Day

This week’s article continues with the story of a walk up the creek on our farm with our dog, Chief.

Chief and I came up and out of the draw on the west end and circled back to the south coming out by the old shed. This was the only building on the old Sharp site that had a partial roof on it when we moved over to the new farm. Not needing a few things that we had in the old house north of Bloomington, we stored them in this building. The roof is long gone from the shed, so inside of concrete walls set the remainder of left over stuff of our first five years in Franklin County.

To many readers these remnants would look like junk, but to me, these pieces of metal are full of memories of times gone by. On the floor in the dirt is the old heating stove that ran almost constantly to heat our old home in winter. I wanted to see the front of the gray gas stove that had fallen forward, so I picked it up as best I could and turned it around and braced it against the north wall. I used my glove to clean the snow from it. At its base were the two regulating knobs that will never turn again. Many a cold evening the two fans of this heater became a contenting sound, running and running to warm our young family. Some nights, I even turned up the heat with those knobs, late in the night, not because I was cold, but because I couldn’t sleep. The humming sound was being equal to a sound wave machine that you can buy today, made for the best kind of sleep. I looked for the Gambles emblem that I am sure was on it but unable to see its red markings, I resolved to the fact it must be on the backside.

As I left the stove I stumbled over something in the dirt. An old orange and brown striped cloth was at my feet. I stooped to pick it up. The design seemed so familiar to me. I knew I had seen this wide piece of fabric before as I spread it on top of the heating stove. Then I remembered it was an old sheet from the boy’s beds in the old south bedroom of our first rental farm. I must have brought it along to cover the stove. I felt is worn material and remembered the summer sun shining on an old maple twin bed and a little boy covered with this faded sheet. From the stove, I turned around to face an old blue motor bike with only a little paint left, and noted the 1976 license plate, still good as new. We left it here that same year. Sure enough that was the year on November 2 that we loaded our belongings into the old blue Ford pickup and moved to our new home. My mind returned to a front yard full of water grass, but we didn’t mind, for it was green like grass, even if it was a weed. Playing in this yard were tow boys so happy with an old blue cycle. The fact that it was gas powered made it super OK with them, even though it needed repair every other day.

Over in the corner were the remains of a red bicycle with the metal tag near the upright handle bars said Grants. Didn’t there used to be a store at Kearney named Grants? About all that’s left of it is the basic metal parts bent almost beyond recognition. When we came to the farm north of Bloomington in the summer of 1971, we sprayed that season. Our son, Steve was born on August 31. We returned to Denver shortly after his birth to work during the winter months. While we lived in Denver, someone broke into our garage on the old farm and stole some things. Two new blue bikes were among the items taken. When we returned in the spring of 1972 we had to buy new bikes for the boys. This broken red bike was one of them.

By now, Chief was becoming tired, like me. He started down towards the hull of the Millpond. Out of the dry pond runs the millrace that leads to the warmth of home. The millrace still runs over the hill to the west, close to our home on Highway 136. This millrace supplied the water to the mill a mile south of here (a story for another day).

Upon leaving the old three-sided building, I walked about 30 yards, and then turned and looked back at the stove covered with the bed sheet and you know what I did? I walked back and got that piece of fabric and took it home with me. I couldn’t leave it there, for it was like leaving a piece of my existence behind. You probably know by now I sometimes do weird things. I had my camera along with me on this walk and took 20 pictures of what most people might call ‘nothing’: snow-covered trees, foundation ruins, and pieces of metal. Be it odd or not, those photographs have stories within. They are the stories I tell you about, and I consider them very precious to me.

Later, back home I washed some clothes. In the back room I heard the washer running. It was washing a piece of our Donovan past. I will dry and fold the old orange and brown sheet as best I can and the next time my sons are at home I will pull the sheet out of the drawer and ask them, ‘ Do you remember this?’

The snow, the beautiful snow, filling the sky and earth below!
Beautiful snow! It can do nothing wrong.
Pure as an angle and fickle as love! James Watson

Rena Donovan, For Another Day.

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