Reflections on Impressions by leonard VandenBosch
Written 1994
This reflection is written by Len VandenBosch (8-1-1919/8-13-1999) who lived on 104th St and for a short time attended the Ottawa School and then the Ovens School. He married Sadie Vollink, daughter of Lou Vollink, and for some time he lived on the Pete VerPlank farm in Borculo and for awhile at 10007 Port Sheldon Dr. in Borculo. He is the uncle of Don VandenBosch, who manages the Borculo.weebly.com website.
Ottawa School
The building still stands at its original location on the corner of Stanton and 116th St. Actually the location is where 116th St. runs dead into Stanton. Although the building stands only a couple hundred feet off Stanton, it is barely visible anymore from the road.
Trees, shrubs, and underbrush now pretty well cover the area. Not much is recalled of the short time spent at this school, but there are a few impressions gathered along the way.
On our daily walk to and from school, we passed by a crab apple tree growing on the opposite side of a ditch bordering the road. It wasn't a beautiful tree. Its fruit was small and bitter. The interesting thing about the tree was the sharp needles or thorns which for no apparent good reason seemed to stand guard over the fruit. Every day, in season, we stopped at that tree, set our lunch pail down on the ground, and explored the available fruit. Maybe it was the challenge of being able to pick some fruit in spite of the needles that kept us coming back. It certainly wasn't the taste. That remained the same, bitter and hard. Those needles were long and sharp as a pin. After taking one bite of the apple our faces would twitch as we complained about the terrible taste. We would throw away the apple, but the next day we were back again hoping its flavor had improved. It hadn't.
We walked together with other students, particularly on our way home. Two of the girls who walked with us were Hattie and Isla Hiemstra. They were nice girls, but as boys are prone to do, we frequently teased them as we walked along the way. Sometimes, when we reached the road which led to their home, we would sing this little ditty as a parting gesture. "Hattie's got kittens and Isla's got pups, and they all run around with their tails sticking up." Whether they had kittens or pups, was immaterial. The song didn't make any sense then, and today it makes less sense. Wasn't that true of a lot of things which we did in our younger years? Not everything made sense, but we did them anyway.
An interesting piece of property which we passed by on our daily walk to and from school, was the Eli Fellows farm. It was located on the corner of Stanton and 108th St. This was the farm that Dad almost purchased years later. It had, what we considered, a beautiful two story house, well cared for and painted white. The thing that intrigued me was the large wooden water storage tank. It was shaped like a barrel, situated on a platform on the north side of the house. A windmill nearby pumped water into the tank as needed. When the tank became filled, the overflow would run off the sides of the tank onto the ground. We would often stand and watch as the windmill continued turning and the water continued to overflow. It was said that the house had faucets and even flush toilets. That was something unheard of in the country. The only time we came into contact with a flush toilet was when we visited Aunt Katie Karsten. Anyway, the elevated storage tank provided enough gravity to allow for flowing water inside the house. Another interesting thing about the property was the number of buildings. There were a couple of barns, a large tool shed, corn cribs, chicken coop, granary, and possibly others. Considering the type of soil, maybe it was a good thing that Dad didn't buy the farm. He might not have been able to make a living there.
The last home we passed by on our trek from school was the Meengs farm. As written about before, this place was always neat and clean. There wasn't a thing out of place and everything had a place. Nothing ever cluttered the yard. They had a U shaped driveway. In between the tow drives were two cherry trees, on sweet, and the other sour. My visits were quite frequent when the sweet cherries began to ripen. They usually hung strips of cloth in the tree to frighten the birds away. It didn't seem to help much. They continued to be strong competition. Mr. and Mrs. (Joe and Sena) Meengs were always kind and friendly. My contacts were not so much with the children as with the parents. They always made me feel at home. Mrs Meengs always called me "Lennie." Their daughter Geno and son Al still do.
Ottawa School
The building still stands at its original location on the corner of Stanton and 116th St. Actually the location is where 116th St. runs dead into Stanton. Although the building stands only a couple hundred feet off Stanton, it is barely visible anymore from the road.
Trees, shrubs, and underbrush now pretty well cover the area. Not much is recalled of the short time spent at this school, but there are a few impressions gathered along the way.
On our daily walk to and from school, we passed by a crab apple tree growing on the opposite side of a ditch bordering the road. It wasn't a beautiful tree. Its fruit was small and bitter. The interesting thing about the tree was the sharp needles or thorns which for no apparent good reason seemed to stand guard over the fruit. Every day, in season, we stopped at that tree, set our lunch pail down on the ground, and explored the available fruit. Maybe it was the challenge of being able to pick some fruit in spite of the needles that kept us coming back. It certainly wasn't the taste. That remained the same, bitter and hard. Those needles were long and sharp as a pin. After taking one bite of the apple our faces would twitch as we complained about the terrible taste. We would throw away the apple, but the next day we were back again hoping its flavor had improved. It hadn't.
We walked together with other students, particularly on our way home. Two of the girls who walked with us were Hattie and Isla Hiemstra. They were nice girls, but as boys are prone to do, we frequently teased them as we walked along the way. Sometimes, when we reached the road which led to their home, we would sing this little ditty as a parting gesture. "Hattie's got kittens and Isla's got pups, and they all run around with their tails sticking up." Whether they had kittens or pups, was immaterial. The song didn't make any sense then, and today it makes less sense. Wasn't that true of a lot of things which we did in our younger years? Not everything made sense, but we did them anyway.
An interesting piece of property which we passed by on our daily walk to and from school, was the Eli Fellows farm. It was located on the corner of Stanton and 108th St. This was the farm that Dad almost purchased years later. It had, what we considered, a beautiful two story house, well cared for and painted white. The thing that intrigued me was the large wooden water storage tank. It was shaped like a barrel, situated on a platform on the north side of the house. A windmill nearby pumped water into the tank as needed. When the tank became filled, the overflow would run off the sides of the tank onto the ground. We would often stand and watch as the windmill continued turning and the water continued to overflow. It was said that the house had faucets and even flush toilets. That was something unheard of in the country. The only time we came into contact with a flush toilet was when we visited Aunt Katie Karsten. Anyway, the elevated storage tank provided enough gravity to allow for flowing water inside the house. Another interesting thing about the property was the number of buildings. There were a couple of barns, a large tool shed, corn cribs, chicken coop, granary, and possibly others. Considering the type of soil, maybe it was a good thing that Dad didn't buy the farm. He might not have been able to make a living there.
The last home we passed by on our trek from school was the Meengs farm. As written about before, this place was always neat and clean. There wasn't a thing out of place and everything had a place. Nothing ever cluttered the yard. They had a U shaped driveway. In between the tow drives were two cherry trees, on sweet, and the other sour. My visits were quite frequent when the sweet cherries began to ripen. They usually hung strips of cloth in the tree to frighten the birds away. It didn't seem to help much. They continued to be strong competition. Mr. and Mrs. (Joe and Sena) Meengs were always kind and friendly. My contacts were not so much with the children as with the parents. They always made me feel at home. Mrs Meengs always called me "Lennie." Their daughter Geno and son Al still do.
Ovens School
This school, located on the corner of 104th and Baldwin, must have been a relatively new school when we arrived. The east side consisted of cloak rooms, storage, entrance, and of all things, inside toilets. Imagine that! No more hesitation in raising a finger for permission to seek relief in cold weather, and no more excuses to get permission to romp around outside for a few minutes on a beautiful day. The rest rooms were quite simple. In fact, it was a glorified outhouse moved inside. A large steel tank was buried below floor level with a single seat mounted on the top. It was a direct drop from seat to tank. There was no flushing. It was always a little eerie looking down into the dark hole. Chemicals were added to reduce the odors, but they were not all eliminated. This was modern living! No more sitting on snow covered toilet seats.
Imagine, a one room school, one teacher for all eight grades. It was doubtful that we had kindergarten in those days. That one teacher taught all classes for each grade level, besides being administrator, disciplinarian, and often custodian. Each class was given assignments in each subject. Study and preparation was done at each one's desk. When the time came for a class to "recite," the class would move to a recitation bench in the front of the school where the teacher reviewed the subject, asked questions, and determined how well each one was prepared for the day. While one class was reciting, the rest were expected to study. That would have been ideal, but it didn't always come off that way. There were always some who didn't care to learn or were move interested in goofing off. Paper wads would go flying across the room. Girls could be heard complaining about a boy sitting behind her who had dipped her long hair into the ink bottle on his desk. When such incidents created considerable distraction and confusion, the teacher would have to leave what she was doing and come over to apply such disciplinary action either by words or deeds as was necessary to correct the situation. These were the days when pulled hair, slaps across the face, the swift application of a ruler across the knuckles of a hand were all legal. It was always very important for the teacher to get in the good graces of the Zimonich boys. They were: John, Mart, Charlie, and Steve. They were big guys. Their age exceeded their grade level, so by the time they reached the eighth grade, they were bigger than the teacher, and stronger too. If they liked the teacher, they often served as her support, but if they didn't like her, watch out! Teaching and supervising 35 to 40 students every day was no small matter. Counseling was unheard of. Maybe it was needed, but most of the counseling was applied directly to the seat of the problem in the form of disciplinary action.
The administration of discipline was regarded far differently then as compared to now. In our day the teacher was in command, and control was exercised by action. There are times recalled when a teacher grabbed a boy by the hair, and literally lifted him out of his seat and then dropped him down again, all in one motion. This, accompanied by some strong words of warning, usually took care of the situation and served as warning to any others who may have had an idea to create a disturbance. The whole situation was far different then. Anyone having received punishment or even a reprimand was afraid to go home for fear that this information would leak out and come to the attention of the parents. Sometimes these facts could be kept from the parents, but all it took was a slip of the tongue by a brother or sister and that did it. Often the punishment received at home was more severe than that administered by the teacher. You see, parents believed that teacher administered punishment was warranted, and they stood behind the teacher in support of action taken. There was no point in going home and complaining about punishment received at school. Parents didn't rush over to the school and "have it out" with the teacher. How different things are today! Teachers are afraid to "lay a hand on a child" either as a corrective measure, or as an expression of affection or concern. Have these changes had a positive effect on education? The steady decline in parental control, concern and support has produced a system of student domination and parental absenteeism which is becoming more and more difficult to curb and correct. How can it be any different? Where are the parents today? An even more vexing question, who are the parents?
Back to Ovens School. Every desk was equipped with an ink well inserted in a round hole in the upper right hand corner of the desk. Ball point pens were unheard of in those days. A fountain pen was quite expensive. So, whatever writing that was done with ink was done with a replaceable pen point. These replaceable pen points were inserted into the end of a pencil like holder. The end of the holder had a half moon opening into which the pen point was inserted. Then by dipping the point into the ink well, a supply of ink would attach itself to the point, and it was possible to write a few words. It was a scratchy system and sometimes quite blotchy, but with practice, some people developed a very good handwriting. An ink blotter was an essential item to keep the ink from smearing all over the page.
The school was well lighted. The west side of the building was almost entirely windows. There was no electricity, so there were no auxiliary lights. These windows provided an excellent view of the outside. With a little stretching of the neck, we were able to see almost everything that went on near the school. These windows also provided a look-out on special occasions, such as the times a boyfriend of one of our teachers flew over the school with his plane. He would first circle the school from a high altitude and then as he approached from the east we would all flock to the windows when we heard the motors of the plane becoming louder and louder. When he came near to the school he would swoop down real low and as soon as he had cleared the school, he would rise sharply and take off. Seeing a plan e that close was quite an experience for us kids. Planes were not all that plentiful in those days. Undoubtedly this was not an approved practice, but we thought it was great. Another teacher had a boy friend who lived a short distance from the school and often rode past the school on horseback. We all got a kick out of seeing him wave as he rode past the windows, but I don't think our teacher appreciated it. Our teachers were single girls who lived about a half mile from school in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Heine Hop.
Pencil boxes were a prized item. Every student simply had to have one. What a luxury to be able to afford one with two or three drawer compartments. The boxes were stocked with several pencils, erasers, colors, ink pen and points, and whatever else one was interested in accumulating and displaying. Another item of interest was our dinner pails. Some students enjoyed the luxury of having a bought lunch pail. This was generally rectangular in shape with two handles attached to the sides of the pail. When these handles were in the upright position, they served to keep the cover in place and provided a handy carrying unit. When the handles were turned down, the lunch pail could be opened and made ready for the lunch break. Most of the pails were of Karo Syrup variety. They served the purpose very well. On advantage was that we didn't have be as careful with those pails. How different the lunches then and now. The daily diet was pretty much fixed, peanut butter or jelly or both. Home made bread was so good when fresh, but under the best of conditions, it dried out fast. There was no such thing as sandwich bags, or even saran wrap to keep the sandwiches relatively fresh. The sandwiches were placed in the pail unwrapped. By the time we got to eating them, they were quite stale. But that's the way it was with everyone. There were only two alternatives, either eat or go hungry. We always ate. Present day policies and procedures still upset me. My opinion has been expressed before on this, but why have we conformed to a government funded program of feeding our school children. Sure, there are advantages which once we become accustomed to are difficult to dispense with, but isn't that true of every government program which continues to drain our economy?
We had no snow days at school. Oh yes, we had rough winters then too, but we had no communication system to alert everyone of such an event. Everyone assumed there would be school, and made every effort to get there. We were often brought to school by sleigh in the winter and picked up again after school. If the teacher could not make it and the school was not open when we arrived, someone would usually be there to alert us to the fact. We could then go home. Some of those stormy days are will remembered. Even the horses had a difficult time pulling themselves through those deep snow drifts.
Before leaving the subject of school days, there comes to mind a couple incidents which were not especially appreciated.
First, there was the infrequent visit by the Ottawa County School Commissioner, Mr. G. G. Groenewould. He was a tall thin man who had to stoop to get through the doorway leading into our classroom. For some unknown reason, most of us were afraid of him. Maybe it was his position of authority which brought about that fear. He would often stand in the front of the room talking to the teacher. We were all on our best behavior, but all the time were straining our ears to catch a few words which would indicate what they were talking about. Then he would move slowly along each row of desks, observing what was being done, sometimes asking questions of students and sometimes making comments. He usually conducted the recitation session of a couple classes. He usually conducted the recitation session of a couple classes. We dreaded having our class selected. He sometimes asked questions which we did not cover in our lessons. This made us very uneasy, but maybe this was his method of demonstrating that he had a wider knowledge of the subject than we. He was a kind man, and generally before he left he would make a few comments which were usually commendable. We were always glad to see him go.
Other visitors we did not appreciate were the County Health Doctor and Nurse. The doctor was Dr. Ten Have. We didn't really know him that well, but he was our cousin through marriage. That didn't help much in easing the tension associated with those vaccinations. Their appearance at the door was greeted by a soft groan. It was a strange thing, but there was usually a student in the rest room when their car drove up. It didn't take long for the entire student body to be alerted to the fact of their presence. We knew what we were in for. We lined up in a single row according to seating arrangement and waited our turn outside of a small storage room where the doctor and nurse had set up operations. Observing each student coming out of the room following his or her vaccination didn't help the situation any. Most of them came out putting on quite an act, holding their arm as though it been amputated, complaining about the severe pain, and indicating by sign language how long the needle was. Of course, some came out acting like there was nothing to it. The apprehension of waiting in line turned many a brave soul into a very meek individual.
Following the closing of the school when students were transferred to other schools, the building remained empty for some time. Eventually it was sold and the buyers converted it into a residence. Some of the original features are still recognizable. On leisurely drives out into the country, this was one of my focal points as well as a number of other landmarks: our old farm, the woods road, the sites of our dams, the old swimming holes, the fishing holes, the Olive Township Cemetery where Mom, Dad, Bill, and Marv are buried, past the Ottawa School which is now almost hidden from view, past the Ottawa Reformed Church, and then back home. Many stops were made along the way to take time to reflect upon the events which took place years before and to call to mind the significance each location had in my life. There were happy recollections and there were sad ones. At certain places I felt revitalized and at others, the tears would flow. Sometimes I felt strongly to remain awhile, just to absorb the beauty and reflect unhurriedly on how things used to be, how they might have been, and how everything turned out. But this paragraph was intended to be about Ovens School and not about personal emotions.
I may not be able to recall the names of all the students who attended Ovens School at about the same time I did, but I'll give it a try.
This school, located on the corner of 104th and Baldwin, must have been a relatively new school when we arrived. The east side consisted of cloak rooms, storage, entrance, and of all things, inside toilets. Imagine that! No more hesitation in raising a finger for permission to seek relief in cold weather, and no more excuses to get permission to romp around outside for a few minutes on a beautiful day. The rest rooms were quite simple. In fact, it was a glorified outhouse moved inside. A large steel tank was buried below floor level with a single seat mounted on the top. It was a direct drop from seat to tank. There was no flushing. It was always a little eerie looking down into the dark hole. Chemicals were added to reduce the odors, but they were not all eliminated. This was modern living! No more sitting on snow covered toilet seats.
Imagine, a one room school, one teacher for all eight grades. It was doubtful that we had kindergarten in those days. That one teacher taught all classes for each grade level, besides being administrator, disciplinarian, and often custodian. Each class was given assignments in each subject. Study and preparation was done at each one's desk. When the time came for a class to "recite," the class would move to a recitation bench in the front of the school where the teacher reviewed the subject, asked questions, and determined how well each one was prepared for the day. While one class was reciting, the rest were expected to study. That would have been ideal, but it didn't always come off that way. There were always some who didn't care to learn or were move interested in goofing off. Paper wads would go flying across the room. Girls could be heard complaining about a boy sitting behind her who had dipped her long hair into the ink bottle on his desk. When such incidents created considerable distraction and confusion, the teacher would have to leave what she was doing and come over to apply such disciplinary action either by words or deeds as was necessary to correct the situation. These were the days when pulled hair, slaps across the face, the swift application of a ruler across the knuckles of a hand were all legal. It was always very important for the teacher to get in the good graces of the Zimonich boys. They were: John, Mart, Charlie, and Steve. They were big guys. Their age exceeded their grade level, so by the time they reached the eighth grade, they were bigger than the teacher, and stronger too. If they liked the teacher, they often served as her support, but if they didn't like her, watch out! Teaching and supervising 35 to 40 students every day was no small matter. Counseling was unheard of. Maybe it was needed, but most of the counseling was applied directly to the seat of the problem in the form of disciplinary action.
The administration of discipline was regarded far differently then as compared to now. In our day the teacher was in command, and control was exercised by action. There are times recalled when a teacher grabbed a boy by the hair, and literally lifted him out of his seat and then dropped him down again, all in one motion. This, accompanied by some strong words of warning, usually took care of the situation and served as warning to any others who may have had an idea to create a disturbance. The whole situation was far different then. Anyone having received punishment or even a reprimand was afraid to go home for fear that this information would leak out and come to the attention of the parents. Sometimes these facts could be kept from the parents, but all it took was a slip of the tongue by a brother or sister and that did it. Often the punishment received at home was more severe than that administered by the teacher. You see, parents believed that teacher administered punishment was warranted, and they stood behind the teacher in support of action taken. There was no point in going home and complaining about punishment received at school. Parents didn't rush over to the school and "have it out" with the teacher. How different things are today! Teachers are afraid to "lay a hand on a child" either as a corrective measure, or as an expression of affection or concern. Have these changes had a positive effect on education? The steady decline in parental control, concern and support has produced a system of student domination and parental absenteeism which is becoming more and more difficult to curb and correct. How can it be any different? Where are the parents today? An even more vexing question, who are the parents?
Back to Ovens School. Every desk was equipped with an ink well inserted in a round hole in the upper right hand corner of the desk. Ball point pens were unheard of in those days. A fountain pen was quite expensive. So, whatever writing that was done with ink was done with a replaceable pen point. These replaceable pen points were inserted into the end of a pencil like holder. The end of the holder had a half moon opening into which the pen point was inserted. Then by dipping the point into the ink well, a supply of ink would attach itself to the point, and it was possible to write a few words. It was a scratchy system and sometimes quite blotchy, but with practice, some people developed a very good handwriting. An ink blotter was an essential item to keep the ink from smearing all over the page.
The school was well lighted. The west side of the building was almost entirely windows. There was no electricity, so there were no auxiliary lights. These windows provided an excellent view of the outside. With a little stretching of the neck, we were able to see almost everything that went on near the school. These windows also provided a look-out on special occasions, such as the times a boyfriend of one of our teachers flew over the school with his plane. He would first circle the school from a high altitude and then as he approached from the east we would all flock to the windows when we heard the motors of the plane becoming louder and louder. When he came near to the school he would swoop down real low and as soon as he had cleared the school, he would rise sharply and take off. Seeing a plan e that close was quite an experience for us kids. Planes were not all that plentiful in those days. Undoubtedly this was not an approved practice, but we thought it was great. Another teacher had a boy friend who lived a short distance from the school and often rode past the school on horseback. We all got a kick out of seeing him wave as he rode past the windows, but I don't think our teacher appreciated it. Our teachers were single girls who lived about a half mile from school in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Heine Hop.
Pencil boxes were a prized item. Every student simply had to have one. What a luxury to be able to afford one with two or three drawer compartments. The boxes were stocked with several pencils, erasers, colors, ink pen and points, and whatever else one was interested in accumulating and displaying. Another item of interest was our dinner pails. Some students enjoyed the luxury of having a bought lunch pail. This was generally rectangular in shape with two handles attached to the sides of the pail. When these handles were in the upright position, they served to keep the cover in place and provided a handy carrying unit. When the handles were turned down, the lunch pail could be opened and made ready for the lunch break. Most of the pails were of Karo Syrup variety. They served the purpose very well. On advantage was that we didn't have be as careful with those pails. How different the lunches then and now. The daily diet was pretty much fixed, peanut butter or jelly or both. Home made bread was so good when fresh, but under the best of conditions, it dried out fast. There was no such thing as sandwich bags, or even saran wrap to keep the sandwiches relatively fresh. The sandwiches were placed in the pail unwrapped. By the time we got to eating them, they were quite stale. But that's the way it was with everyone. There were only two alternatives, either eat or go hungry. We always ate. Present day policies and procedures still upset me. My opinion has been expressed before on this, but why have we conformed to a government funded program of feeding our school children. Sure, there are advantages which once we become accustomed to are difficult to dispense with, but isn't that true of every government program which continues to drain our economy?
We had no snow days at school. Oh yes, we had rough winters then too, but we had no communication system to alert everyone of such an event. Everyone assumed there would be school, and made every effort to get there. We were often brought to school by sleigh in the winter and picked up again after school. If the teacher could not make it and the school was not open when we arrived, someone would usually be there to alert us to the fact. We could then go home. Some of those stormy days are will remembered. Even the horses had a difficult time pulling themselves through those deep snow drifts.
Before leaving the subject of school days, there comes to mind a couple incidents which were not especially appreciated.
First, there was the infrequent visit by the Ottawa County School Commissioner, Mr. G. G. Groenewould. He was a tall thin man who had to stoop to get through the doorway leading into our classroom. For some unknown reason, most of us were afraid of him. Maybe it was his position of authority which brought about that fear. He would often stand in the front of the room talking to the teacher. We were all on our best behavior, but all the time were straining our ears to catch a few words which would indicate what they were talking about. Then he would move slowly along each row of desks, observing what was being done, sometimes asking questions of students and sometimes making comments. He usually conducted the recitation session of a couple classes. He usually conducted the recitation session of a couple classes. We dreaded having our class selected. He sometimes asked questions which we did not cover in our lessons. This made us very uneasy, but maybe this was his method of demonstrating that he had a wider knowledge of the subject than we. He was a kind man, and generally before he left he would make a few comments which were usually commendable. We were always glad to see him go.
Other visitors we did not appreciate were the County Health Doctor and Nurse. The doctor was Dr. Ten Have. We didn't really know him that well, but he was our cousin through marriage. That didn't help much in easing the tension associated with those vaccinations. Their appearance at the door was greeted by a soft groan. It was a strange thing, but there was usually a student in the rest room when their car drove up. It didn't take long for the entire student body to be alerted to the fact of their presence. We knew what we were in for. We lined up in a single row according to seating arrangement and waited our turn outside of a small storage room where the doctor and nurse had set up operations. Observing each student coming out of the room following his or her vaccination didn't help the situation any. Most of them came out putting on quite an act, holding their arm as though it been amputated, complaining about the severe pain, and indicating by sign language how long the needle was. Of course, some came out acting like there was nothing to it. The apprehension of waiting in line turned many a brave soul into a very meek individual.
Following the closing of the school when students were transferred to other schools, the building remained empty for some time. Eventually it was sold and the buyers converted it into a residence. Some of the original features are still recognizable. On leisurely drives out into the country, this was one of my focal points as well as a number of other landmarks: our old farm, the woods road, the sites of our dams, the old swimming holes, the fishing holes, the Olive Township Cemetery where Mom, Dad, Bill, and Marv are buried, past the Ottawa School which is now almost hidden from view, past the Ottawa Reformed Church, and then back home. Many stops were made along the way to take time to reflect upon the events which took place years before and to call to mind the significance each location had in my life. There were happy recollections and there were sad ones. At certain places I felt revitalized and at others, the tears would flow. Sometimes I felt strongly to remain awhile, just to absorb the beauty and reflect unhurriedly on how things used to be, how they might have been, and how everything turned out. But this paragraph was intended to be about Ovens School and not about personal emotions.
I may not be able to recall the names of all the students who attended Ovens School at about the same time I did, but I'll give it a try.
- Goodykes: Harold, Grace, Anna, Berdina, Hermina, Gerald
- Hassevoorts: Herm, Margaret, Harriet, Ann, Pearl, Harold, Ed, Peter, Geneva, Bud, Ger, Ruth, Jean, Kay, Beverly, Betty, Janice, Gloria, Sheryl, Douglas, Darlene, and Daniel (Not all these children attended Ovens School and not all of them are known to me personally. The list was obtained from a copy of Growing Up In a Large Family by Harriet Holstege and Ruth Knap.
- De Witt: Marv
- Morren: Jerold, Ray, Ruth, Hazel, Mildred, Bob
- Van Beek: Gertrude and ?
- Kuyers: Ben, Gerbena, Gerben
- Vanden Heuvel: Anna, Menser, Gertrude, Cornelius, Theressa. John, Esther, Bertha
- Ver Lee: Henry
- De Weerd: Johanna
- Stremler: Edith, Pearl, Priscilla
- Ovens: Virginia, LaVanche
- Overweg: Henrietta, Henry, Hazel, John, Francis, ?
- Zimonick: John, Martin, Charley, Steve
- Troost: 4 children, names unknown
- Geurink, Bert: Henry, Gertrude, Delores
- Geurink, John: Junior, Hazel, Alma, Jean, ?, ?
- Talsma: Gladys, Della, Egbert
- Vanden Bosch: Mae, Nella, Leonard, Jeannette, John, Jay (Marv, George, and Bill did not attend Ovens)
- Driesenga: None of their children attended Ovens. They attended school in Holland where they lived with their mother during the school months. They joined their father, John, in the Spring of the year on the farm located directly across the road from our house.
Clothing
A popular item of clothing in the Winter was the high top shoe. They came in various heights, some 12 inches, some 14 inches, and some 16 inches. The higher the shoe the better. We scanned the pages of the Sears and Wards catalogs imagining how wonderful it would be to own a pair of 16 inch high tops. They were the envy of every boy in school. The trousers were folded neatly inside of a pair of long woolen stockings which were slightly higher than the shoes, and were either folded over top of the shoes, or extended above the shoes. The shoes were strung with buckskin shoe strings. These were strung through eyes for a short distance up from the bottom and the rest of the way up to the top around hooks. Once put on in the morning, they stayed on until night. They were perfect protection in rain, snow, mud, of any kind of weather. Undoubtedly they are still available today. One way of weatherizing the shoe was by rubbing hot fat on them. A couple applications in the winter served pretty well to keep the feet dry and the shoes soft and pliable.
Another popular item in the Winter was a pair of goggles. We really felt we had it made if we could afford a simulated leather insulated cap which covered the ears with straps which came together under the chin. Included with the cap was a pair of goggles. We felt that we could face any kind of weather equipped with high tops, leather cap, and goggles.
Wearing hand-me-downs was a common experience. Every family practiced it and almost every child experienced wearing items of clothing passed on down by an older brother or sister. Sometimes those items were sincerely appreciated, especially if they were in good shape and to the liking of the person receiving them, but sometimes the item was pretty well worn out by the time it was passed on. Sometimes the fit was not very good, but we wore it just the same. A favorite expression was. “You'll grow into it.”
Patched trousers, shirts, and jackets were common. Sometimes patches appeared on top of patches. Old clothes were never thrown away. They were used to patch other clothing. An attempt was made to patch with like material, but that was not always possible. The patch was always outstanding because the patch was always of different color than the material to which it was attached. Mother spent hour after hour cutting out pieces from old clothes and stitching them over the holes of worn out spots. The practice today of intentionally defacing new clothes by cutting holes in them or making them look old in other ways is sickening and heart breaking. The thoughts of other days when a new piece of clothing was appreciated and was a treasured item still remains clear in my mind. My position in the family age line-up resulted in few hand-me-downs for me. Marv was the next older brother and after him came Mae and Nell, so there weren't many items passed on to me.
A popular item of clothing in the Winter was the high top shoe. They came in various heights, some 12 inches, some 14 inches, and some 16 inches. The higher the shoe the better. We scanned the pages of the Sears and Wards catalogs imagining how wonderful it would be to own a pair of 16 inch high tops. They were the envy of every boy in school. The trousers were folded neatly inside of a pair of long woolen stockings which were slightly higher than the shoes, and were either folded over top of the shoes, or extended above the shoes. The shoes were strung with buckskin shoe strings. These were strung through eyes for a short distance up from the bottom and the rest of the way up to the top around hooks. Once put on in the morning, they stayed on until night. They were perfect protection in rain, snow, mud, of any kind of weather. Undoubtedly they are still available today. One way of weatherizing the shoe was by rubbing hot fat on them. A couple applications in the winter served pretty well to keep the feet dry and the shoes soft and pliable.
Another popular item in the Winter was a pair of goggles. We really felt we had it made if we could afford a simulated leather insulated cap which covered the ears with straps which came together under the chin. Included with the cap was a pair of goggles. We felt that we could face any kind of weather equipped with high tops, leather cap, and goggles.
Wearing hand-me-downs was a common experience. Every family practiced it and almost every child experienced wearing items of clothing passed on down by an older brother or sister. Sometimes those items were sincerely appreciated, especially if they were in good shape and to the liking of the person receiving them, but sometimes the item was pretty well worn out by the time it was passed on. Sometimes the fit was not very good, but we wore it just the same. A favorite expression was. “You'll grow into it.”
Patched trousers, shirts, and jackets were common. Sometimes patches appeared on top of patches. Old clothes were never thrown away. They were used to patch other clothing. An attempt was made to patch with like material, but that was not always possible. The patch was always outstanding because the patch was always of different color than the material to which it was attached. Mother spent hour after hour cutting out pieces from old clothes and stitching them over the holes of worn out spots. The practice today of intentionally defacing new clothes by cutting holes in them or making them look old in other ways is sickening and heart breaking. The thoughts of other days when a new piece of clothing was appreciated and was a treasured item still remains clear in my mind. My position in the family age line-up resulted in few hand-me-downs for me. Marv was the next older brother and after him came Mae and Nell, so there weren't many items passed on to me.
Mother's Work
Clothes Washing
There are a host of impressions which come to mind when thinking about the variety of work performed by my mother. Wash day was a full day operation. Water had to be carried from a hand pump outside, heated on a coal stove in the kitchen, and when heated, transferred to tubs for washing. Still remembered are the basket type soap containers into which a bar of American Family soap was placed along with any leftover pieces of soap too small to be used handily. The wire container was swished around in the tub of hot water until the water took on a soapy appearance. The clothes were then placed in the tub and soaked for a period of time. They were stirred around and plunged prior to rubbing each item on a washboard. The washboard had a rough surface on one side which contributed to the washing effort and scrubbing action. Imagine the rough hands and the bruised knuckles which resulted over a period of time from rubbing and scrubbing each item to be washed. Especially dirty clothes had to be given special attention and there were many of those. After washing and wringing out each item by hand, they were transferred to a tub of clean water. After repeated dippings of each item, they were again rung out and placed in a third tub of water. This was the final rinsing. Then after squeezing out every possible drop of water, the clothes were taken outside and hung on lines strung between two cross boards mounted on fence posts some distance apart. This was done rain or shine, in the heat of summer or the dead of winter with temperatures below zero sometimes. A feeling of accomplishment must have accompanied every completion of a wash. Seeing the clothes blowing in the breeze must have created a sense of satisfaction, but the work did not end there. With the passing of time, improvements were also realized in the washing process. A Maytag washer with a gas motor and attached wringer was a great improvement. There was still much work involved, but the load became easier. The pride, goal, and challenge of many women was to see who could have her wash out on the line first. Living out in the country, such competition was hardly noticeable except as it became a part of conversations at social functions. Mother didn't concern herself about being the first. Just getting the job done was an end in itself.
Clothes Washing
There are a host of impressions which come to mind when thinking about the variety of work performed by my mother. Wash day was a full day operation. Water had to be carried from a hand pump outside, heated on a coal stove in the kitchen, and when heated, transferred to tubs for washing. Still remembered are the basket type soap containers into which a bar of American Family soap was placed along with any leftover pieces of soap too small to be used handily. The wire container was swished around in the tub of hot water until the water took on a soapy appearance. The clothes were then placed in the tub and soaked for a period of time. They were stirred around and plunged prior to rubbing each item on a washboard. The washboard had a rough surface on one side which contributed to the washing effort and scrubbing action. Imagine the rough hands and the bruised knuckles which resulted over a period of time from rubbing and scrubbing each item to be washed. Especially dirty clothes had to be given special attention and there were many of those. After washing and wringing out each item by hand, they were transferred to a tub of clean water. After repeated dippings of each item, they were again rung out and placed in a third tub of water. This was the final rinsing. Then after squeezing out every possible drop of water, the clothes were taken outside and hung on lines strung between two cross boards mounted on fence posts some distance apart. This was done rain or shine, in the heat of summer or the dead of winter with temperatures below zero sometimes. A feeling of accomplishment must have accompanied every completion of a wash. Seeing the clothes blowing in the breeze must have created a sense of satisfaction, but the work did not end there. With the passing of time, improvements were also realized in the washing process. A Maytag washer with a gas motor and attached wringer was a great improvement. There was still much work involved, but the load became easier. The pride, goal, and challenge of many women was to see who could have her wash out on the line first. Living out in the country, such competition was hardly noticeable except as it became a part of conversations at social functions. Mother didn't concern herself about being the first. Just getting the job done was an end in itself.
Ironing
This was another time consuming job. Imagine the accumulation of clothes for a family of our size. It is true, the number of white clothes was quite limited, but there were plenty of others. Ironing was tedious and difficult. Flat irons were used. This was a solid piece of iron whose shape was quite similar to the present day electric irons. A bracket with a wooden handle was fitted into place on top of the flat iron. The iron was placed on top of the stove to be heated. When the iron was properly heated, the bracket was placed in position on top of the iron, lifted off the stove and used immediately for ironing before the iron cooled off. Determining when the iron was properly heated was a trick in itself. If it was not hot enough it was not effective in getting the wrinkles out of the clothes, and if it was too hot, there was the danger of scorching the clothes. This happened on occasion. Throughout the ironing process it was necessary to frequently change irons because they cooled off quite fast. We still have a couple of these irons in our collection of things, but we no longer have the bracket or handle.
Darning and Mending
This was work which mother usually did at night when all the other chores were completed. She could usually be found in her rocking chair with a pile of socks requiring darning and clothes needing mending. Socks and other items of clothing were inferior quality in those days. Today, a pair of socks will survive washing after washing before they finally wear out, but then holes appeared in socks in no time at all. Mother usually used a water glass or tumbler which she inserted into the sock, stretching the part of the sock with the hole in it across the mouth of the glass. There weren't many varieties of colors, but an effort was made to select a color of darning cotton which came close to the color of the sock. The darning thread could be anchored in the material. This back and forth stitching was repeated until the entire area of the hole was covered. Then the same thing was done going in the opposite direction, going under and over the strands which had previously been stitched. When complete, the hole was covered by a double strand of thread. The pattern generally looked pretty good. The socks were then good for a limited amount of use before hole reappeared. The problem was that holes appeared at the heal and toes of the socks. Darning created an unevenness which often resulted in blisters forming at those points. The job of darning interested me, and after watching mother, and with her further instruction, I was able to do a few. However, the work soon became boring and the job was left to mother.
This was another time consuming job. Imagine the accumulation of clothes for a family of our size. It is true, the number of white clothes was quite limited, but there were plenty of others. Ironing was tedious and difficult. Flat irons were used. This was a solid piece of iron whose shape was quite similar to the present day electric irons. A bracket with a wooden handle was fitted into place on top of the flat iron. The iron was placed on top of the stove to be heated. When the iron was properly heated, the bracket was placed in position on top of the iron, lifted off the stove and used immediately for ironing before the iron cooled off. Determining when the iron was properly heated was a trick in itself. If it was not hot enough it was not effective in getting the wrinkles out of the clothes, and if it was too hot, there was the danger of scorching the clothes. This happened on occasion. Throughout the ironing process it was necessary to frequently change irons because they cooled off quite fast. We still have a couple of these irons in our collection of things, but we no longer have the bracket or handle.
Darning and Mending
This was work which mother usually did at night when all the other chores were completed. She could usually be found in her rocking chair with a pile of socks requiring darning and clothes needing mending. Socks and other items of clothing were inferior quality in those days. Today, a pair of socks will survive washing after washing before they finally wear out, but then holes appeared in socks in no time at all. Mother usually used a water glass or tumbler which she inserted into the sock, stretching the part of the sock with the hole in it across the mouth of the glass. There weren't many varieties of colors, but an effort was made to select a color of darning cotton which came close to the color of the sock. The darning thread could be anchored in the material. This back and forth stitching was repeated until the entire area of the hole was covered. Then the same thing was done going in the opposite direction, going under and over the strands which had previously been stitched. When complete, the hole was covered by a double strand of thread. The pattern generally looked pretty good. The socks were then good for a limited amount of use before hole reappeared. The problem was that holes appeared at the heal and toes of the socks. Darning created an unevenness which often resulted in blisters forming at those points. The job of darning interested me, and after watching mother, and with her further instruction, I was able to do a few. However, the work soon became boring and the job was left to mother.
CANNING
Most of our Winter supply of food was put up in cans in the Summer and Fall. All kinds of fruits and vegetables were put up in glass quart jars and stored in the basement. There was a separate room in the basement used solely for that purpose. Shelf after shelf lined the walls. In the Fall a pig or two were killed. As much meat as possible was removed from the bones, cut up into serving size pieces, and placed in glass jars. These were sealed tightly and placed in the boiler filled with water, and placed on the stove to cook. After a considerable length of time the meat was done, removed from the boiler, allowed to cool off a bit, and then transported to the cellar for storage. We had a feast eating the meat which was left on the bones. That was a real treat. The thought of that canned meat still stimulates my appetite. Maybe we got a little sick of it then, but my best memories are Sunday dinner with fried potatoes and canned meat. It was so tender it could be cut with a fork, and it was so tasty too!
Baking
Mother baked homemade bread regularly. Oh the smell of home made bread! It was overwhelming. We could smell it already as we walked down the path leading to the house. Those loaves of fresh baked bread are still vivid in my mind. They can still be seen lined up on the counter, nicely browned with melted butter spread across the top. It must said though that sometimes they were not so nice and brown. If the stove became overheated during baking, or if the bread was left in the oven a bit too long, they could become a somewhat burned brown. Imagine trying to bake in an unregulated oven which could vary in temperature by a number of degrees. If the coals were exceptionally hot, the oven became hot. If the coals died down, the oven also lost its heat. The frequency of mother's bread baking is not known, but it must have been more than once a week to keep all those hungry mouths filled. Also, the bread had no preservatives added, and there were no wrappings as we have them today. The loaves remained in the open, or at best in the bread box. The loaves soon became stale and lost their appeal. What a delight it was when we first tasted bakery bread. That was something! There were times when a cake was baked, or other pastries were made. Those were generally for a special occasion. The pan in which the frosting or filling was prepared was in great demand. It seems to me we took turns on who got to lick out the pans. Sometimes a significant amount, and on other occasions not much was left, but we gave them the once over just the same.
Doctor and Nurse
Mother administered to our medical needs quite frequently. If a communicable disease struck, it usually followed its course through the entire family. Attending to the health needs of her family during times of sickness was time consuming. She didn't really need this added responsibility, but she never complained. She was always right beside us when we needed her. Sometimes her home remedies did not suit us too well, but we generally had no choice. Sometimes she did not feel well herself, but her family always came first. There were the cuts and bruises, the headaches, the sprains, a broken arm, or just plain bellyaches from eating too many green apples. All these required treatment and mom was always there to provide it in a kind and sympathetic manner. The days were no longer then than now, but how she was able to accomplish so much is beyond my comprehension. There is a saying, "Man works from dawn to setting sun, but a woman's work is never done." How true it is
Most of our Winter supply of food was put up in cans in the Summer and Fall. All kinds of fruits and vegetables were put up in glass quart jars and stored in the basement. There was a separate room in the basement used solely for that purpose. Shelf after shelf lined the walls. In the Fall a pig or two were killed. As much meat as possible was removed from the bones, cut up into serving size pieces, and placed in glass jars. These were sealed tightly and placed in the boiler filled with water, and placed on the stove to cook. After a considerable length of time the meat was done, removed from the boiler, allowed to cool off a bit, and then transported to the cellar for storage. We had a feast eating the meat which was left on the bones. That was a real treat. The thought of that canned meat still stimulates my appetite. Maybe we got a little sick of it then, but my best memories are Sunday dinner with fried potatoes and canned meat. It was so tender it could be cut with a fork, and it was so tasty too!
Baking
Mother baked homemade bread regularly. Oh the smell of home made bread! It was overwhelming. We could smell it already as we walked down the path leading to the house. Those loaves of fresh baked bread are still vivid in my mind. They can still be seen lined up on the counter, nicely browned with melted butter spread across the top. It must said though that sometimes they were not so nice and brown. If the stove became overheated during baking, or if the bread was left in the oven a bit too long, they could become a somewhat burned brown. Imagine trying to bake in an unregulated oven which could vary in temperature by a number of degrees. If the coals were exceptionally hot, the oven became hot. If the coals died down, the oven also lost its heat. The frequency of mother's bread baking is not known, but it must have been more than once a week to keep all those hungry mouths filled. Also, the bread had no preservatives added, and there were no wrappings as we have them today. The loaves remained in the open, or at best in the bread box. The loaves soon became stale and lost their appeal. What a delight it was when we first tasted bakery bread. That was something! There were times when a cake was baked, or other pastries were made. Those were generally for a special occasion. The pan in which the frosting or filling was prepared was in great demand. It seems to me we took turns on who got to lick out the pans. Sometimes a significant amount, and on other occasions not much was left, but we gave them the once over just the same.
Doctor and Nurse
Mother administered to our medical needs quite frequently. If a communicable disease struck, it usually followed its course through the entire family. Attending to the health needs of her family during times of sickness was time consuming. She didn't really need this added responsibility, but she never complained. She was always right beside us when we needed her. Sometimes her home remedies did not suit us too well, but we generally had no choice. Sometimes she did not feel well herself, but her family always came first. There were the cuts and bruises, the headaches, the sprains, a broken arm, or just plain bellyaches from eating too many green apples. All these required treatment and mom was always there to provide it in a kind and sympathetic manner. The days were no longer then than now, but how she was able to accomplish so much is beyond my comprehension. There is a saying, "Man works from dawn to setting sun, but a woman's work is never done." How true it is
Departure and Substitution
One day the time came for mother to leave us. We will never know the depth of the conflict she experienced in her soul and mind. She loved her family. She loved her God. She always had time to tuck us into bed at night and to listen to our prayers. She read us Bible stories and told us about the love of Jesus. She insisted that we knew our catechism lessons and reviewed each question and answer with us. She made sure we could answer each question word for word without referring to our books. She insisted that we receive proper and adequate Biblical instruction. We received catecatical instruction in Ottawa Reformed Church in the Summer, and at the Borculo Christian Reformed Church in the Winter. Memories of her are rich and abiding. She was loving, devoted, admirable, and inspirational. She left us at a time when she was sorely needed. In her place we were blessed by having a devoted loving sister who gave her all, ambitions, career, and so much more so that our family could and would remain together. Just think of the responsibilities listed under "Mother" and then consider the fact that a little fifteen year old girl took over all those duties and performed in a most admirable fashion. True and sufficient gratitude will never be adequately expressed to her for her loving devotion and care. Thank you so very, very, much Jeanette, our little Nettie.
One day the time came for mother to leave us. We will never know the depth of the conflict she experienced in her soul and mind. She loved her family. She loved her God. She always had time to tuck us into bed at night and to listen to our prayers. She read us Bible stories and told us about the love of Jesus. She insisted that we knew our catechism lessons and reviewed each question and answer with us. She made sure we could answer each question word for word without referring to our books. She insisted that we receive proper and adequate Biblical instruction. We received catecatical instruction in Ottawa Reformed Church in the Summer, and at the Borculo Christian Reformed Church in the Winter. Memories of her are rich and abiding. She was loving, devoted, admirable, and inspirational. She left us at a time when she was sorely needed. In her place we were blessed by having a devoted loving sister who gave her all, ambitions, career, and so much more so that our family could and would remain together. Just think of the responsibilities listed under "Mother" and then consider the fact that a little fifteen year old girl took over all those duties and performed in a most admirable fashion. True and sufficient gratitude will never be adequately expressed to her for her loving devotion and care. Thank you so very, very, much Jeanette, our little Nettie.
OUTSIDE ACTIVITY
Limited outside activity made the home meaningful. We were not involved in social functions. Church activities were limited to one service on Sunday and Christian Endeavor in the evening. Sunday School followed the church services twelve months of the year. Catechism, as mentioned before, was held during the Summer months when a Western Theological student stayed in the area and conducted the Sunday Service as well as taught catechism. What a quiet, peaceful existence compared with the endless scheduling of committee meetings, society meetings, meetings to discuss more meetings, and on and on. The Sunday bulletin of today makes the mind swim when the possible involvement in various functions and activities is considered. Each age group is represented by some organization plus one or two more to make sure that no one is omitted and everyone has a choice. Our entertainment was simple, our toys few, but joy and satisfaction was not missing. Imagine a Sears or Montgomery Ward catalog serving as entertainment for the evening. Imagine listening to an old phonograph which had to be wound up frequently and some old phonograph records which had been played over and over dozens of times until they squeaked and scratched all the way through. Contentment was not dependent on possessions. It was a state of the heart, a condition of the mind and a satisfaction over being at peace with one another and with God.
Limited outside activity made the home meaningful. We were not involved in social functions. Church activities were limited to one service on Sunday and Christian Endeavor in the evening. Sunday School followed the church services twelve months of the year. Catechism, as mentioned before, was held during the Summer months when a Western Theological student stayed in the area and conducted the Sunday Service as well as taught catechism. What a quiet, peaceful existence compared with the endless scheduling of committee meetings, society meetings, meetings to discuss more meetings, and on and on. The Sunday bulletin of today makes the mind swim when the possible involvement in various functions and activities is considered. Each age group is represented by some organization plus one or two more to make sure that no one is omitted and everyone has a choice. Our entertainment was simple, our toys few, but joy and satisfaction was not missing. Imagine a Sears or Montgomery Ward catalog serving as entertainment for the evening. Imagine listening to an old phonograph which had to be wound up frequently and some old phonograph records which had been played over and over dozens of times until they squeaked and scratched all the way through. Contentment was not dependent on possessions. It was a state of the heart, a condition of the mind and a satisfaction over being at peace with one another and with God.
NIGHT MUSIC
On warm Spring evenings and hot Summer nights, the sounds of night music flowed freely through our open bedroom windows. It was not the constant roar of highway traffic, or the screeching of tires. It was the sound of frogs in the marshy area just south of our barn as they kept up a steady chant responding to the croaking of other frogs. There were the tree toads, as we called them, and the crickets which blended their songs to make a combination of musical strains which brought sleep to our eyes. Night after night we were soothed into sleep as the music came through our windows in endless tones. Even today, when the sound of a frog is heard, memories of those peaceful nights are revived and relived.
RAIN ON THE ROOF
Another interesting and relaxing experience was the sound of rain on the roof. Our upstairs was mostly open to the roof boards, making outside sounds clearly audible in our bedroom. A heavy rain storm or a steady shower were both welcomed sounds. Somehow those sounds created the feeling that all was well in the world and that everything was under control. An especially satisfying experience was climbing up to the top of the hay mow and lying in the hay during a rain storm. Our barn was one of the very few in the area which had a steel roof. This consisted of long panels of sheet metal which were grooved and fitted together on the edges, making a tight fit and resulting in a well sealed off roof. The sound of rain on that roof seemed to be amplified. We often lay in the hay on such occasions, and soon fell fast asleep. The pitter-patter of rain of the roof still intrigues me.
On warm Spring evenings and hot Summer nights, the sounds of night music flowed freely through our open bedroom windows. It was not the constant roar of highway traffic, or the screeching of tires. It was the sound of frogs in the marshy area just south of our barn as they kept up a steady chant responding to the croaking of other frogs. There were the tree toads, as we called them, and the crickets which blended their songs to make a combination of musical strains which brought sleep to our eyes. Night after night we were soothed into sleep as the music came through our windows in endless tones. Even today, when the sound of a frog is heard, memories of those peaceful nights are revived and relived.
RAIN ON THE ROOF
Another interesting and relaxing experience was the sound of rain on the roof. Our upstairs was mostly open to the roof boards, making outside sounds clearly audible in our bedroom. A heavy rain storm or a steady shower were both welcomed sounds. Somehow those sounds created the feeling that all was well in the world and that everything was under control. An especially satisfying experience was climbing up to the top of the hay mow and lying in the hay during a rain storm. Our barn was one of the very few in the area which had a steel roof. This consisted of long panels of sheet metal which were grooved and fitted together on the edges, making a tight fit and resulting in a well sealed off roof. The sound of rain on that roof seemed to be amplified. We often lay in the hay on such occasions, and soon fell fast asleep. The pitter-patter of rain of the roof still intrigues me.
OIL WELL DRILLING
There was a time when our hopes ran high that we might see the day when we would have our own oil well. An oil rig spent many days drilling for oil on our property. It was exciting to go out there and check on their progress. Our imaginations often ran wild as we speculated on what a gusher would mean for us. We thought of many benefits we would be able to enjoy if the hole became a producing well. We didn't stop to think that it wasn't even our property and that we wouldn't stand to benefit anyway. After what seemed like weeks of drilling, one day the entire drilling mechanism was dismantled and moved out. All that remained was an area of roughed up soil and spilled oil and grease. All hopes vanished as quickly as they had been stimulated.
HUNTING AND TRAPPING
There was a time when pheasants were quite plentiful in the area of our farm. During hunting season it was fun going out toward the end of the day with our dog, hoping to chase up a rooster and being able to shoot it down. We never felt overly confident of the gun we owned. It was a single shot 16 gauge. If you didn't hit on the first try, there was no second chance. Our dog "Pup" was always raring to go. In fact, there was no controlling him. Once he smelled a track, usually along a fence line, he took off and there was no way of keeping up with him. After running after him as fast as we could and losing ground all the time, we would often see the bird take off way down the line at a distance far too great for our gun to reach. Pheasant hunting was a popular sport for years. On October 20, the day hunting season opened, people would come from all over, locate a favorite hunting spot, and wait for the time for the season to open. Without fail shots could always be heard prior to the 10 AM opening time. Hunters couldn't wait any longer and took a chance on an early start. Hunters could be seen all over the country side. It was hardly safe to venture out into the field that first day of hunting season. Kitchens were set up at many locations to serve the hungry hunters. After the first few days, activity fell off and things returned to normal.
A leisurely kind of hunting was squirrel hunting in the woods on our farm. As we approached the woods, we would generally see a number of squirrels scurry for the nearest tree and take refuge near the top. By the time we approached a given tree, the squirrel had pretty well hid himself by lying flat against a branch. If hunting alone, it was difficult to outwit the squirrel. As soon as the person moved to another side of the tree, the squirrel would also move to the opposite side of the branch or trunk. It almost required two people for a successful squirrel hunt. If and when the squirrel changed locations or moved into sight, we opened fire. It was always a thrill to see the squirrel fall from his perch high in the tree to the ground below. We ate squirrels in those days, but I would never consider eating one today. They remind me too much of a rat, and a rat does not stimulate my appetite.
Before leaving the subject of hunting, it is time for a confession. Mention has been made of the fact that we did not own a very good gun. We never really felt too confident going hunting with it, feeling we didn't have much of a chance of hitting anything. Well, one day while hunting along the banks of the creek (Pigeon River) a hen pheasant took off from the brush in a direction going away from me. I watched her go and then raised my gun, took a wild aim, fired, and down came the hen pheasant. Of course it was illegal to shoot a hen pheasant, but there it was. I felt bad about it, but in no way could I take it home. I tossed it into some brush and moved on. After that incident I realized it wasn't the gun, but rather the nut firing it.
Trapping for muskrat and mink was another Winter activity. We had a ditch winding through most of our farm which served a home for many muskrats. The creek, Pigeon River, was also a good place to set traps. Muskrat holes could be found quite easily along the banks. The trap was set, placed near the entrance to the hole, the chain from the trap was attached to a pole which was driven securely into the ground. Every day we went out to check each trap we had set. Sometimes we would come home with one or two, but most days we had nothing to show for our efforts. When we did catch one, we would skin it and stretch the hide across a couple of shingles which had been formed to fit and stretch the hide. It seems to me that we could usually get about a dollar for a good hide. That was big money in those days. The prize we always hoped for was a mink. Those skins were much more valuable. We never caught one, but Jim and Elmer Driesenga caught one once. Buyers of hides would come around maybe once a week. This was not a warm weather sport. Sometimes we would have to chip away the ice in order to locate the trap. Sometimes we would find what the muskrat had left behind in the trap, his leg which he in desperation had chewed off to escape. That would be all that was left for us.
There was a time when our hopes ran high that we might see the day when we would have our own oil well. An oil rig spent many days drilling for oil on our property. It was exciting to go out there and check on their progress. Our imaginations often ran wild as we speculated on what a gusher would mean for us. We thought of many benefits we would be able to enjoy if the hole became a producing well. We didn't stop to think that it wasn't even our property and that we wouldn't stand to benefit anyway. After what seemed like weeks of drilling, one day the entire drilling mechanism was dismantled and moved out. All that remained was an area of roughed up soil and spilled oil and grease. All hopes vanished as quickly as they had been stimulated.
HUNTING AND TRAPPING
There was a time when pheasants were quite plentiful in the area of our farm. During hunting season it was fun going out toward the end of the day with our dog, hoping to chase up a rooster and being able to shoot it down. We never felt overly confident of the gun we owned. It was a single shot 16 gauge. If you didn't hit on the first try, there was no second chance. Our dog "Pup" was always raring to go. In fact, there was no controlling him. Once he smelled a track, usually along a fence line, he took off and there was no way of keeping up with him. After running after him as fast as we could and losing ground all the time, we would often see the bird take off way down the line at a distance far too great for our gun to reach. Pheasant hunting was a popular sport for years. On October 20, the day hunting season opened, people would come from all over, locate a favorite hunting spot, and wait for the time for the season to open. Without fail shots could always be heard prior to the 10 AM opening time. Hunters couldn't wait any longer and took a chance on an early start. Hunters could be seen all over the country side. It was hardly safe to venture out into the field that first day of hunting season. Kitchens were set up at many locations to serve the hungry hunters. After the first few days, activity fell off and things returned to normal.
A leisurely kind of hunting was squirrel hunting in the woods on our farm. As we approached the woods, we would generally see a number of squirrels scurry for the nearest tree and take refuge near the top. By the time we approached a given tree, the squirrel had pretty well hid himself by lying flat against a branch. If hunting alone, it was difficult to outwit the squirrel. As soon as the person moved to another side of the tree, the squirrel would also move to the opposite side of the branch or trunk. It almost required two people for a successful squirrel hunt. If and when the squirrel changed locations or moved into sight, we opened fire. It was always a thrill to see the squirrel fall from his perch high in the tree to the ground below. We ate squirrels in those days, but I would never consider eating one today. They remind me too much of a rat, and a rat does not stimulate my appetite.
Before leaving the subject of hunting, it is time for a confession. Mention has been made of the fact that we did not own a very good gun. We never really felt too confident going hunting with it, feeling we didn't have much of a chance of hitting anything. Well, one day while hunting along the banks of the creek (Pigeon River) a hen pheasant took off from the brush in a direction going away from me. I watched her go and then raised my gun, took a wild aim, fired, and down came the hen pheasant. Of course it was illegal to shoot a hen pheasant, but there it was. I felt bad about it, but in no way could I take it home. I tossed it into some brush and moved on. After that incident I realized it wasn't the gun, but rather the nut firing it.
Trapping for muskrat and mink was another Winter activity. We had a ditch winding through most of our farm which served a home for many muskrats. The creek, Pigeon River, was also a good place to set traps. Muskrat holes could be found quite easily along the banks. The trap was set, placed near the entrance to the hole, the chain from the trap was attached to a pole which was driven securely into the ground. Every day we went out to check each trap we had set. Sometimes we would come home with one or two, but most days we had nothing to show for our efforts. When we did catch one, we would skin it and stretch the hide across a couple of shingles which had been formed to fit and stretch the hide. It seems to me that we could usually get about a dollar for a good hide. That was big money in those days. The prize we always hoped for was a mink. Those skins were much more valuable. We never caught one, but Jim and Elmer Driesenga caught one once. Buyers of hides would come around maybe once a week. This was not a warm weather sport. Sometimes we would have to chip away the ice in order to locate the trap. Sometimes we would find what the muskrat had left behind in the trap, his leg which he in desperation had chewed off to escape. That would be all that was left for us.
HEINZ EMPLOYMENT
For two or three summers, while attending Hope College, I was able to work at the Harlem Pickle Receiving Station. The station was located on U.S. 31 North of Holland at the present location of the Bill-Mar Feed Elevators. This period of employment was quite short, lasting only during the pickle growing season. The pay was not all that great either, but it was something. Those were depression years, 1939, 1940, 1941, and jobs were hard to find. It was interesting meeting farmers from the area and many of them remained good friends for many years following. My job was bookkeeper. Besides keeping records throughout the day of receipts and shipments, it was my job to close out the books daily after the last farmer was processed. All the other employees were free to go home, but I had to balance out the receipts for the day with shipments made and the final shipment of the day. These reports went out with the trucker who was always anxiously waiting for me to complete the reports so that he could be on his way. These reports went to the Holland Office. A Mr. Barton, a field man from the Holland Office, often stopped in. He was a kindly gentleman who often encouraged me and commended me on the good job I was doing.
MUDDY ROADS
Every Spring of the year the road south of our place became almost impassable. There were a couple of spots which were possibly 250 feet long separated by a slightly elevated area of about 300 feet. As the frost left the ground, these muddy areas became progressively worse. The road was narrow and did not allow much room along the sides to negotiate. There were generally two main tracks through the mud. They both showed signs of the bottom of cars having scraped over the mud. The tracks were generally filled with water, making it difficult to determine which was the better one. We generally stopped short of the mud, got out of the car and surveyed the area to try to determine which track to take. After selecting what we thought would be the best track to follow, we got back in the car, backed up a little and got a running start. We hit the mud with wheels spinning and water and mud flying in all directions. We bounced along and sometimes almost came to a stop. The mud was so thick on the windshield that it almost impossible to see. Once the car stopped, there was no hope of getting out on your own power. The more we tried going back and forth, the deeper we sank in the mud until the situation became absolutely hopeless. The bottom of the car rested on the mud below and wheels turned freely, offering no traction at all. It then became necessary to walk home, get the horses, and be pulled out of the mud. A short slightly elevated area made it possible to get a good start once again before hitting the second mud hole. Imagine how our cars looked, mud from bumper to bumper. It took a good car to survive such roads. There was no point in washing the car as long as the roads remained muddy. The next day we would have to experience the same thing all over again. Besides, we were not always dressed for such occasions. Getting out of the car when stuck in the mud, meant the end of our clean clothes and polished shoes. It was with great relief that the frost finally left the ground, the water flowed away, the road dried up, and we were once again able to travel in a normal fashion.
For two or three summers, while attending Hope College, I was able to work at the Harlem Pickle Receiving Station. The station was located on U.S. 31 North of Holland at the present location of the Bill-Mar Feed Elevators. This period of employment was quite short, lasting only during the pickle growing season. The pay was not all that great either, but it was something. Those were depression years, 1939, 1940, 1941, and jobs were hard to find. It was interesting meeting farmers from the area and many of them remained good friends for many years following. My job was bookkeeper. Besides keeping records throughout the day of receipts and shipments, it was my job to close out the books daily after the last farmer was processed. All the other employees were free to go home, but I had to balance out the receipts for the day with shipments made and the final shipment of the day. These reports went out with the trucker who was always anxiously waiting for me to complete the reports so that he could be on his way. These reports went to the Holland Office. A Mr. Barton, a field man from the Holland Office, often stopped in. He was a kindly gentleman who often encouraged me and commended me on the good job I was doing.
MUDDY ROADS
Every Spring of the year the road south of our place became almost impassable. There were a couple of spots which were possibly 250 feet long separated by a slightly elevated area of about 300 feet. As the frost left the ground, these muddy areas became progressively worse. The road was narrow and did not allow much room along the sides to negotiate. There were generally two main tracks through the mud. They both showed signs of the bottom of cars having scraped over the mud. The tracks were generally filled with water, making it difficult to determine which was the better one. We generally stopped short of the mud, got out of the car and surveyed the area to try to determine which track to take. After selecting what we thought would be the best track to follow, we got back in the car, backed up a little and got a running start. We hit the mud with wheels spinning and water and mud flying in all directions. We bounced along and sometimes almost came to a stop. The mud was so thick on the windshield that it almost impossible to see. Once the car stopped, there was no hope of getting out on your own power. The more we tried going back and forth, the deeper we sank in the mud until the situation became absolutely hopeless. The bottom of the car rested on the mud below and wheels turned freely, offering no traction at all. It then became necessary to walk home, get the horses, and be pulled out of the mud. A short slightly elevated area made it possible to get a good start once again before hitting the second mud hole. Imagine how our cars looked, mud from bumper to bumper. It took a good car to survive such roads. There was no point in washing the car as long as the roads remained muddy. The next day we would have to experience the same thing all over again. Besides, we were not always dressed for such occasions. Getting out of the car when stuck in the mud, meant the end of our clean clothes and polished shoes. It was with great relief that the frost finally left the ground, the water flowed away, the road dried up, and we were once again able to travel in a normal fashion.
SECURITY
It still amazes me how things have changed when considering personal safety and property security. We never locked a door on the farm. In fact, some of the doors may not have had locks, or if they did, we didn't have keys. No matter what time of day or night, we never had to be concerned about being able to get in the house. Our cars and trucks, whether parked inside or out on the yard always had their keys in them. Tools and equipment were left outside. We never worried about someone stealing anything. We had our own gas pump, but never had a lock on it. It would have been a simple matter for someone to pull up to the pump and fill up his car. Now every door is securely locked, sometimes with more than one lock, nothing is left outside, and we wouldn't think of leaving our keys in our cars. Conditions have changed considerably.
BALL DIAMONDS
As early in the Spring as weather permitted, we started our Spring training on a piece of Driesenga's property right across the road from our house. We had no backstop and all we needed were a few sticks or pieces of board to mark the bases. The team was Elmer and Jim Driesenga, John, Jay, and myself. After the Ottawa Ball Team was organized, we played on a piece of pasture land belonging to Herm Stremler on the corner of 96th Ave. and Polk St., across from where the Bill-Marv water tower now stands. Mr. Stremler was very kind. He had no children of his own, but year after year he allowed us to play on his property. We built a backstop and laid out the playing field. Remember this was also used as pasture for his cattle. During the day his cattle grazed the area and whenever they felt it necessary to relieve themselves, they did so. It didn't matter to them if that happened to home plate, the baselines, or anywhere else in the outfield. Due caution had to be exercised in chasing a fly ball or running the bases to avoid stepping into a "cow flop." We tried our best to clean up the infield before a game, but cleaning up a spot on the grass is quite difficult. We usually covered what was left with sand, but sometimes that very soon would be someone's field of play. In the excitement of sliding into a base, such a spot could create a not too desirable situation. Then too, sometimes the batted ball would seek out one of those hazards and the ball would come out a different color than before. But that was all part of the game. Later on we moved our diamond to a cow pasture on the Morren farm. This is the same property which Dad later purchased and lived for a short time. There were a number of country ball teams in existence at the time. There were teams from Allendale, Haarlem, Borculo, North Holland, and North Blendon. Occasionally we played the Sunoco team from Zeeland. They were the big city guys. They were accustomed to playing on a nice piece of smooth dirt infield with grassy outfield and no cow manure to worry about. When they could come to play us on our diamond, we would hear all kinds of derogatory remarks. These remarks were not very kind and they didn't make us feel any better. They also conveyed a superior air about them. But sometimes we would beat them, making us feel pretty proud. The nice part of playing them was to have a return match and be able to play on their diamond. They played at what still remains as the Legion Field. That was quite an experience to field a ground ball on a smooth surface and not have the ball hit an object just before fielding it, and having it bounce over your head. We had many exciting games and enjoyed many wonderful experiences.
It still amazes me how things have changed when considering personal safety and property security. We never locked a door on the farm. In fact, some of the doors may not have had locks, or if they did, we didn't have keys. No matter what time of day or night, we never had to be concerned about being able to get in the house. Our cars and trucks, whether parked inside or out on the yard always had their keys in them. Tools and equipment were left outside. We never worried about someone stealing anything. We had our own gas pump, but never had a lock on it. It would have been a simple matter for someone to pull up to the pump and fill up his car. Now every door is securely locked, sometimes with more than one lock, nothing is left outside, and we wouldn't think of leaving our keys in our cars. Conditions have changed considerably.
BALL DIAMONDS
As early in the Spring as weather permitted, we started our Spring training on a piece of Driesenga's property right across the road from our house. We had no backstop and all we needed were a few sticks or pieces of board to mark the bases. The team was Elmer and Jim Driesenga, John, Jay, and myself. After the Ottawa Ball Team was organized, we played on a piece of pasture land belonging to Herm Stremler on the corner of 96th Ave. and Polk St., across from where the Bill-Marv water tower now stands. Mr. Stremler was very kind. He had no children of his own, but year after year he allowed us to play on his property. We built a backstop and laid out the playing field. Remember this was also used as pasture for his cattle. During the day his cattle grazed the area and whenever they felt it necessary to relieve themselves, they did so. It didn't matter to them if that happened to home plate, the baselines, or anywhere else in the outfield. Due caution had to be exercised in chasing a fly ball or running the bases to avoid stepping into a "cow flop." We tried our best to clean up the infield before a game, but cleaning up a spot on the grass is quite difficult. We usually covered what was left with sand, but sometimes that very soon would be someone's field of play. In the excitement of sliding into a base, such a spot could create a not too desirable situation. Then too, sometimes the batted ball would seek out one of those hazards and the ball would come out a different color than before. But that was all part of the game. Later on we moved our diamond to a cow pasture on the Morren farm. This is the same property which Dad later purchased and lived for a short time. There were a number of country ball teams in existence at the time. There were teams from Allendale, Haarlem, Borculo, North Holland, and North Blendon. Occasionally we played the Sunoco team from Zeeland. They were the big city guys. They were accustomed to playing on a nice piece of smooth dirt infield with grassy outfield and no cow manure to worry about. When they could come to play us on our diamond, we would hear all kinds of derogatory remarks. These remarks were not very kind and they didn't make us feel any better. They also conveyed a superior air about them. But sometimes we would beat them, making us feel pretty proud. The nice part of playing them was to have a return match and be able to play on their diamond. They played at what still remains as the Legion Field. That was quite an experience to field a ground ball on a smooth surface and not have the ball hit an object just before fielding it, and having it bounce over your head. We had many exciting games and enjoyed many wonderful experiences.
FIREWORKS
For a number of years we would place an order for fireworks from a catalog. This was usually done well in advance of the Fourth of July so that we were sure to have our supply on time. We were restricted by a very limited budget, but we always managed to order a supply of small firecrackers. These came in a package of a hundred or so with their fuses all intertwined. It took a bit of careful untying in order to preserve the firecracker and the fuse. These didn't make much noise and didn't create much of a stir when ignited, but they were fun to have. We were also able to purchase a few larger ones and a few very big ones which really created a bang. A couple times we even bought a couple miniature sky rockets. They were really too expensive, didn't go very high, and didn't do much for us.
One game we played was putting a firecracker under a tin can, igniting it and watching how high the can would go in the air. The little firecrackers barely raised the can from the ground. We tried a little larger firecracker and the can went up a pretty good distance. We then made a big mistake. We went to the largest ones we had. We lit the firecracker, placed it under the can and ran away as fast as we could. As we ran, the firecracker exploded and blew the can into many pieces. One of those sharp pieces hit me on the back side of my left hand as we ran away. Nothing was noticed at first, but I soon felt something warm running down my hand. The object had hit the top side of my hand, just below the knuckles. The blood was flowing freely. We made some bandages, wrapped up my hand, and it seems to me that Elmer Driesenga drove me to the home of Dr. Masselink. He lived on the corner of Church and Lincoln Streets in Zeeland. By the time we got there the bandages were thoroughly soaked with blood. We were fortunate that he was home. He came to the door and before we had a chance to explain what had happened, he looked down at us from his glasses which had slipped half way down his nose, made a couple of grunts, and then said something about "you crazy kids." We already knew that. We didn't have to be reminded of that fact. His wife, Nella, our step cousin, immediately helped to remove the bandages and to cleanse the wound. She was very kind. The Doc stitched up the cut, attached metal clamps, bandaged it real good, and we were off. That pretty well took care of Summer activities, but a lesson had been learned. The scar is till faintly visible as a reminder of an experiment which went wrong. As the saying goes, "It could have been a lot worse."
A LOST $20.00 DOLLAR BILL
One day Dad appeared concerned and often deep in thought. Toward evening he confided in us that he had lost a twenty dollar bill. He thought he had tucked it into a small pocket in the bib part of his overalls. He had retraced his steps of the day, but found nothing. He had placed it in his pocket before leaving Zeeland after unloading the milk at Mead Johnson. He had checked the stable, the barn floor, the granary, tool shed, milk house, and chicken coop, but no sign of his twenty. After supper he decided he would go to the field where he had gone during the day to check on Bill's plowing. I told him I would go with him. We checked the area he had covered, scratched through the dirt where he had stood, scanned the grass in the wide area, thinking that maybe the wind had blown it away, but no twenty. Today, a twenty dollar bill would seem quite insignificant, but in those days it was a lot of money. Dad worked hard for every penny he made and it was hard seeing him concerned over the lost twenty. Undoubtedly he had many places he could have used the money and many items he would have liked to buy. The thought came to me over and over again, if I only had twenty dollars I would gladly have given it to him, but there were no such funds available. Dad often mentioned how handy it would be to have a vise. Looking through the Sears catalog one day I spotted a vise for $4.95. It was only a small one, but it was a vise. An order was placed and one day the vise arrived. What an exciting day that was when the vise arrived, to open the box, to take out the vise, and to give it to Dad. He was really surprised and treasured that vise for years. One day he told me that a customer on his milk route showed him a large vise which he had and mentioned that he would prefer a smaller one. So Dad asked me if it would be all right with me if he traded. One day he came home with that larger vise which had a long leg for mounting on a work bench. It was a real nice one and far better suited for the type of work it would be used for on the farm. Even though it was not the vise I had given him, he always referred to it as such. In my own mind there was satisfaction in thinking that maybe this was in part a compensation for the lost twenty.
For a number of years we would place an order for fireworks from a catalog. This was usually done well in advance of the Fourth of July so that we were sure to have our supply on time. We were restricted by a very limited budget, but we always managed to order a supply of small firecrackers. These came in a package of a hundred or so with their fuses all intertwined. It took a bit of careful untying in order to preserve the firecracker and the fuse. These didn't make much noise and didn't create much of a stir when ignited, but they were fun to have. We were also able to purchase a few larger ones and a few very big ones which really created a bang. A couple times we even bought a couple miniature sky rockets. They were really too expensive, didn't go very high, and didn't do much for us.
One game we played was putting a firecracker under a tin can, igniting it and watching how high the can would go in the air. The little firecrackers barely raised the can from the ground. We tried a little larger firecracker and the can went up a pretty good distance. We then made a big mistake. We went to the largest ones we had. We lit the firecracker, placed it under the can and ran away as fast as we could. As we ran, the firecracker exploded and blew the can into many pieces. One of those sharp pieces hit me on the back side of my left hand as we ran away. Nothing was noticed at first, but I soon felt something warm running down my hand. The object had hit the top side of my hand, just below the knuckles. The blood was flowing freely. We made some bandages, wrapped up my hand, and it seems to me that Elmer Driesenga drove me to the home of Dr. Masselink. He lived on the corner of Church and Lincoln Streets in Zeeland. By the time we got there the bandages were thoroughly soaked with blood. We were fortunate that he was home. He came to the door and before we had a chance to explain what had happened, he looked down at us from his glasses which had slipped half way down his nose, made a couple of grunts, and then said something about "you crazy kids." We already knew that. We didn't have to be reminded of that fact. His wife, Nella, our step cousin, immediately helped to remove the bandages and to cleanse the wound. She was very kind. The Doc stitched up the cut, attached metal clamps, bandaged it real good, and we were off. That pretty well took care of Summer activities, but a lesson had been learned. The scar is till faintly visible as a reminder of an experiment which went wrong. As the saying goes, "It could have been a lot worse."
A LOST $20.00 DOLLAR BILL
One day Dad appeared concerned and often deep in thought. Toward evening he confided in us that he had lost a twenty dollar bill. He thought he had tucked it into a small pocket in the bib part of his overalls. He had retraced his steps of the day, but found nothing. He had placed it in his pocket before leaving Zeeland after unloading the milk at Mead Johnson. He had checked the stable, the barn floor, the granary, tool shed, milk house, and chicken coop, but no sign of his twenty. After supper he decided he would go to the field where he had gone during the day to check on Bill's plowing. I told him I would go with him. We checked the area he had covered, scratched through the dirt where he had stood, scanned the grass in the wide area, thinking that maybe the wind had blown it away, but no twenty. Today, a twenty dollar bill would seem quite insignificant, but in those days it was a lot of money. Dad worked hard for every penny he made and it was hard seeing him concerned over the lost twenty. Undoubtedly he had many places he could have used the money and many items he would have liked to buy. The thought came to me over and over again, if I only had twenty dollars I would gladly have given it to him, but there were no such funds available. Dad often mentioned how handy it would be to have a vise. Looking through the Sears catalog one day I spotted a vise for $4.95. It was only a small one, but it was a vise. An order was placed and one day the vise arrived. What an exciting day that was when the vise arrived, to open the box, to take out the vise, and to give it to Dad. He was really surprised and treasured that vise for years. One day he told me that a customer on his milk route showed him a large vise which he had and mentioned that he would prefer a smaller one. So Dad asked me if it would be all right with me if he traded. One day he came home with that larger vise which had a long leg for mounting on a work bench. It was a real nice one and far better suited for the type of work it would be used for on the farm. Even though it was not the vise I had given him, he always referred to it as such. In my own mind there was satisfaction in thinking that maybe this was in part a compensation for the lost twenty.
DAD AND HIS PIPE
A familiar figure wherever he went was Dad and his pipe. He always smoked Summertime tobacco, which was a coarse, stringy type tobacco. It came in a large package or paper carton, but most of the time he carried it loose in his overall jacket pocket. This was convenient for him, especially in the truck. All he had to do was dip his pipe into his pocket and with one finger fill the bowl. His pipes were always well worn from repeated cleanings with his jack knife. The bowls of the pipes were generally pretty well chipped and cracked before he finally replaced one. Most of the time he smoked pipes with curved stems. Often at night he would fall asleep in his usual chair with his pipe in his mouth. The curved stem allowed him to sleep with the pipe in his mouth and the bowl resting on his chin. Once in awhile his pipe would fall out of his mouth, and sometimes we would remove the pipe from his mouth while he was asleep. On special occasions when visiting Uncle Hank Karsten or when visitors came to our house, cigars were smoked. With a couple men puffing on cigars, a cloud of smoke was the usual thing. That was common practice in those days. The house always had a bad left over smoke smell. Can you imagine putting up with that today?
HALLOWEEN AND OTHER TRICKS
To the best of my knowledge none of our family ever participated in any Halloween pranks. In fact, there wasn't much of it done in our immediate area. However, we heard of common practices the day after Halloween. Evidences could generally be found the next day of individual or group involvement. Placing corn stalks in the middle of the road was a common prank. In those days, corn was cut and placed in shocks in the field. It was a simple matter to carry some of those bundles and set them up in the middle of the road. It was a somewhat dangerous practice, but in those days traffic on off roads was light and quite slow. Obstacles could generally be identified sufficiently in time to avoid them, but occasionally someone would smash into the corn stalks with no great damage resulting. Then too, people were alert to the possibility of Halloween tricks. It became especially dangerous on heavily traveled roads.
Borculo seemed to be the center of activity. Almost every year farm implements could be found on the roofs of buildings in the center of the town. One of the favorite practices was tipping over outhouses (jons or toilets). You see, indoor plumbing was very rare in those days in rural areas. Quite often the same farmer was picked on year after year. It seemed to be a challenge to those who did the dirty work in spite of warnings that action would be taken if the culprits were ever discovered. One story which circulated at the time was of one farmer who was determined to avoid a reoccurrence by sitting in the jon and keeping watch. Imagine, sitting inside of a smelly old jon for who knows how long. Anyway, as some guys approached the place, they were alerted that someone was inside. The owner couldn't refrain from his old smoking habit and was smoking up a storm while keeping watch. Maybe it was an effort on his part to counteract the other odors, but anyway, smoke was seen curling out of the cracks of the jon. The group approached cautiously and quietly. When they were right next to the jon, one grabbed the door handle and held the door shut so the owner could not get out while the others gave a mighty heave and over it went with the owner inside. The group took off running and laughing. How and when the owner got out is not known.
Another story reportedly true, was of a group[ which had difficulty tipping over a particular jon. One of the men behind the building put his back to the structure and bracing himself, pushed with all his might. Suddenly the building began to tip. He lost his footing and fell into the hole. It doesn't require much of an imagination to picture what happened. Imagine him pulling himself out of the hole covered with human waste, and then having to go home and explain his predicament. It is not know how he got home. He may have had to walk all the way home, because who would ever allow him to sit in a car in that condition. This may have been enough to cure him of such practices.
Some farmers, after repeated tippings, reinforced their outhouses. They poured a cement slab and bolted the building to the cement slab. This reportedly discouraged further attempts. In those days, being caught in the act and identified meant parental discipline. This was bad enough, but imagine what might happen today under similar circumstances. With most people owning a gun or guns, and many being trigger happy, someone could very well be shot.
Once in awhile we would take a wheel disc, hubcap, radiator ornament, or whatever else was readily available, tie it to a long piece of twine, lay it in the center of the road, cover the twine with sand, and wait for a passing motorist. Our hope was that a car would stop to investigate, that someone would get out to check on the object and as soon as they got close, we would pull the string and run across the field as fast as we could. The traffic was very minimal and sometimes we would sit and wait a couple hours and have no activity. We would simply try again another night. One night someone stopped. A man got out and as he approached the object, he realized was a trick and shouted at us. He threatened to come and get us, but by that time we were long gone. He acted like he was going to cross the ditch and follow us, but we took off like a scared rabbit and never looked back until we safely in the barn. He drove away, and that was the end of that incident. That may have been the last time we tried the trick.
A familiar figure wherever he went was Dad and his pipe. He always smoked Summertime tobacco, which was a coarse, stringy type tobacco. It came in a large package or paper carton, but most of the time he carried it loose in his overall jacket pocket. This was convenient for him, especially in the truck. All he had to do was dip his pipe into his pocket and with one finger fill the bowl. His pipes were always well worn from repeated cleanings with his jack knife. The bowls of the pipes were generally pretty well chipped and cracked before he finally replaced one. Most of the time he smoked pipes with curved stems. Often at night he would fall asleep in his usual chair with his pipe in his mouth. The curved stem allowed him to sleep with the pipe in his mouth and the bowl resting on his chin. Once in awhile his pipe would fall out of his mouth, and sometimes we would remove the pipe from his mouth while he was asleep. On special occasions when visiting Uncle Hank Karsten or when visitors came to our house, cigars were smoked. With a couple men puffing on cigars, a cloud of smoke was the usual thing. That was common practice in those days. The house always had a bad left over smoke smell. Can you imagine putting up with that today?
HALLOWEEN AND OTHER TRICKS
To the best of my knowledge none of our family ever participated in any Halloween pranks. In fact, there wasn't much of it done in our immediate area. However, we heard of common practices the day after Halloween. Evidences could generally be found the next day of individual or group involvement. Placing corn stalks in the middle of the road was a common prank. In those days, corn was cut and placed in shocks in the field. It was a simple matter to carry some of those bundles and set them up in the middle of the road. It was a somewhat dangerous practice, but in those days traffic on off roads was light and quite slow. Obstacles could generally be identified sufficiently in time to avoid them, but occasionally someone would smash into the corn stalks with no great damage resulting. Then too, people were alert to the possibility of Halloween tricks. It became especially dangerous on heavily traveled roads.
Borculo seemed to be the center of activity. Almost every year farm implements could be found on the roofs of buildings in the center of the town. One of the favorite practices was tipping over outhouses (jons or toilets). You see, indoor plumbing was very rare in those days in rural areas. Quite often the same farmer was picked on year after year. It seemed to be a challenge to those who did the dirty work in spite of warnings that action would be taken if the culprits were ever discovered. One story which circulated at the time was of one farmer who was determined to avoid a reoccurrence by sitting in the jon and keeping watch. Imagine, sitting inside of a smelly old jon for who knows how long. Anyway, as some guys approached the place, they were alerted that someone was inside. The owner couldn't refrain from his old smoking habit and was smoking up a storm while keeping watch. Maybe it was an effort on his part to counteract the other odors, but anyway, smoke was seen curling out of the cracks of the jon. The group approached cautiously and quietly. When they were right next to the jon, one grabbed the door handle and held the door shut so the owner could not get out while the others gave a mighty heave and over it went with the owner inside. The group took off running and laughing. How and when the owner got out is not known.
Another story reportedly true, was of a group[ which had difficulty tipping over a particular jon. One of the men behind the building put his back to the structure and bracing himself, pushed with all his might. Suddenly the building began to tip. He lost his footing and fell into the hole. It doesn't require much of an imagination to picture what happened. Imagine him pulling himself out of the hole covered with human waste, and then having to go home and explain his predicament. It is not know how he got home. He may have had to walk all the way home, because who would ever allow him to sit in a car in that condition. This may have been enough to cure him of such practices.
Some farmers, after repeated tippings, reinforced their outhouses. They poured a cement slab and bolted the building to the cement slab. This reportedly discouraged further attempts. In those days, being caught in the act and identified meant parental discipline. This was bad enough, but imagine what might happen today under similar circumstances. With most people owning a gun or guns, and many being trigger happy, someone could very well be shot.
Once in awhile we would take a wheel disc, hubcap, radiator ornament, or whatever else was readily available, tie it to a long piece of twine, lay it in the center of the road, cover the twine with sand, and wait for a passing motorist. Our hope was that a car would stop to investigate, that someone would get out to check on the object and as soon as they got close, we would pull the string and run across the field as fast as we could. The traffic was very minimal and sometimes we would sit and wait a couple hours and have no activity. We would simply try again another night. One night someone stopped. A man got out and as he approached the object, he realized was a trick and shouted at us. He threatened to come and get us, but by that time we were long gone. He acted like he was going to cross the ditch and follow us, but we took off like a scared rabbit and never looked back until we safely in the barn. He drove away, and that was the end of that incident. That may have been the last time we tried the trick.
OUT OF BLOW SAND AND SAND BURRS
After moving in 1918 from Zeeland to the farm on the corner of Stanton and 104th, we had our church membership transferred from the Third CRC of Zeeland to Rusk CRC. We didn't remain there very long before transferring to the Ottawa Reformed Church. This was possibly due to the fact that Ottawa was closer than Rusk. And where is Ottawa? People often asked that question. The location of the church is easily identified as midway between 112th and 116th on Stanton St., but to identify Ottawa as a specific location is a bit more difficult. It is not a town. It has no shopping area. There are no stores or gas stations. There was once a school which still stands, but has been abandoned. There once was a railroad station in the general area according to early history. Ottawa is more a concept in the minds of the people. It encompasses a large area or a relatively limited area, according to the interpretation of specific people, but one thing is certain, the church has been and continues to be the core, the heart, the identifying point of everything that is Ottawa. The present church property is beautifully landscaped, including impressive facilities. Most of the structures are relatively new. They have a beautiful sanctuary, an impressive new parsonage, a recently completed large gym, with many classrooms, a large athletic field equipped for various sports, and acres of wooded beauty. Things were not always as prosperous and outstanding.
The Ottawa area is one of generally substandard soil. Farmers worked the fields, but the returns were often minimal. They worked hard and long to eke out a mere existence, and that is what it often amounted to. The church property amounted to about an acre of bleak, wind-swept, barren land on which not a tree grew except for one on the northeast corner of the property. In the Spring of the year a few green tufts of grass appeared, but most of the ground cover was weeds which later in the year bore those miserable sand burrs. The greenery soon disappeared with the first heat of Summer, and the drought which soon followed. This area took on a desert appearance as the vegetation disappeared and the open ground gave way to the blast of winds, creating a blow-sand condition. A small white wood framed building on the Northwest corner on the property served as the church. Another small building set somewhat farther back along the west property line was the ladies outhouse. On the Southwest corner stood another building, the horse barn. This served a dual purpose. In the Winter the horses which were used to pull the sleigh and carry people to church, were housed in the horse barn during the service. It also served as the men's outhouse all year around. The smells which greeted you when you first stepped into the building were not the most pleasant, but you soon got accustomed to it. The sand floors made sanitation problems less troublesome. Clean up was less urgent. The loose, wind swept sand near the entrance to the church property created a challenge for young men driving their father's car to the Christian Endeavor Meetings on Sunday night. Some men entered the property at a pretty good rate of speed, cranked the steering wheel sharply to the right or left, shifted to a lower gear, stepped on the gas, and sent the sand and dirt sailing. The church property soon took on the appearance of a plowed field with deep furrows created by the spinning wheels of cars. Undoubtedly, few fathers knew how their cars were being put to the test every Sunday night.
The church itself was a small white wooden structure, long blasted by the Winter storms of snow and rain, and scorched by the blistering hot sun and winds of Summer. The entrance led to a small vestibule with a door leading into the sanctuary to the right and one to the left. Inside were three rows of benches. The benches along the walls were small, holding about four people comfortably. The center section of pews was larger, each bench holding possibly eight people quite comfortably. The total seating capacity was possibly 124 to 150, but the church was rarely filled. The normal attendance at a regular service was about 50 people. Undoubtedly our family of eleven was warmly welcomed to fill in some of the vacant spaces. The only time the church was filled was on special occasions such as the Christmas Program or the like. Originally the church had only a partial basement where the coal and furnace rooms were located. One large register in the middle of the floor in front of the pulpit served to heat the entire church. On cold days the heat never became distributed to the farthest corners. Sitting against the outside walls could also be a chilling experience. The church was served by seminarians from the Western Theological Seminary in Holland and by classical appointments of ministers in the Holland-Zeeland area. The congregation could not afford a minister of its own. We heard many notable preachers and some not so notable, but we were not in a position to complain. Some of the Summer student assignments became prominent leaders in the Reformed Church. Musical accompaniment at services was simple. A piano was used whenever someone could be found capable of playing it. It didn't matter if that person was particularly capable or not. The services of anyone capable of putting a few notes together were sincerely appreciated. There were no accomplished singers, but everyone sang out with gusto and from the heart. Song books were available, but not often used, because the songs chosen were known by heart. Most of the songs requested were by title or first line, seldom by page number. Hymn numbers were provided primarily for the pianist. Many of the songs which were precious to us then are no longer heard today. The repetition of those songs, so rich in meaning, became indelibly etched in our minds. One of the choruses sung quite frequently at our C.E. Meetings still rings in my ears and provides much comfort and assurance. Here are the words:
Oh the love that wrought salvation's plan,
Oh the grace that brought it down to man,
Oh the mighty gulf that God did span, on Calvary.
Mercy there was great and grace was free,
Pardon there was multiplied to me,
There my guilty soul found liberty, at Calvary.
Christian Endeavor (C.E.) Meetings for the young people were held on Sunday evenings. Regular church services were held only in the morning. Having no minister of our own, C.E. meetings were conducted by the young people themselves. Occasionally an outside speaker would lead the Bible lesson and discussion, but generally the meetings were lead by members of the society. Sentence prayers, in which many participated, were a usual part of the meeting. Many rich and abiding experiences resulted from those meetings.
Any historical reference to the Ottawa Reformed Church should include an acknowledgment of the services of a couple people who contributed much and were instrumental in binding the church together. These people are Charlie Kuyers, his wife Clara, and sisters Emma and Alice Kuyers. They lived in Holland, but for years they came faithfully every Sunday. They attended services in their own church on Sunday morning, but every Sunday morning they could be counted on to be parked near the front entrance to our church, waiting for our services to end. They would then join in our Sunday School program, each teaching a class. Charlie always taught the Young Men's class. He was not highly educated, possibly eight grades, but what he lacked in formal education, he compensated for by being a student of the Bible and well versed in the Scriptures. One thing never to be forgotten was his Bible. The edges of the pages were worn and soiled from paging back and forth while searching the Scriptures. I often envied him for having such a Bible which bore evidence of the fact that it was well read and used and was not left to collect dust somewhere on a shelf. He was a fine Christian who loved to teach the Word and who lived it as well. After S.S., they would go to their parents who went to Ottawa, stayed there for dinner, spent the afternoon with them, and then came to the C.E. meetings at night. Their love, concern, and devotion are immeasurable and very much appreciated. Charlie and Clara have both joined the Heavenly Throng about which they often spoke, and for which they longed with eager anticipation. To the best of my knowledge, Emma and Alice are still living and reside in Holland.
Years came and went. Gradually, slowly at first, more people moved into the area and more people joined the congregation. God had not forsaken His faithful few. Many changes took place over a period of time. A full basement under the church became a reality, the small white structure was enlarged by the addition of more classroom space and then the big change, a parsonage was built by mostly volunteer labor. The congregation was ready to move forward. At the appropriate time a call was extended to Howard Teusink, a student at Western Theological Seminary, one who had served the congregation during the Summer months. The call was accepted, and Rev. and Mrs. Teusink became the first occupants of the new parsonage. There was great joy and excitement in the congregation. Rev. Teusink was just the man for the time and place. He endeared himself to the congregation by his charm, warmth of personality, caring attitude, concern for all, and by the exercise of his abilities as a pastor and teacher. He and his wife became one with the congregation as members of the family of God
The church continued to grow. The area was taking on a new look. The Government Reforestation Program was being implemented. The sand hills and barren fields were being planted with pine trees. Christmas tree planting as well as shrubs and blueberries became big business. All this was done in areas and on lands which previously produced nothing, or at most very little. Standing pines and other tree plantings now rise to great heights. The barren fields have become productive. The blow-sand and sand burrs of yesterday have been replaced by a greenery which has enhanced the area and has drawn many families into the community. Some of the old landmarks still remain, but in addition new homes have been built on every crossroad. Couples who formerly married and moved out are now finding the community a quiet, peaceful place to live and raise a family, and are establishing homes in the area. Attendance at the church services continued to increase. Physical properties began to change dramatically over the years. In recent years a large beautiful new parsonage and an impressive new sanctuary were constructed. The new parsonage now stands at approximately the same spot as the former church building. Before long an addition was necessary to accommodate the increase in membership and attendance. In 1992, a large beautiful gym along with several classrooms and utility rooms was completed and dedicated. God had blessed the congregation far beyond anything any of the old-timers would have dreamed possible.
The congregation now has a Pastor and an Associate Pastor. The ministry of the church has remained true to God's Word, and continues in a caring and sharing ministry to all. Its outreach program invites all who are weary and heavy laden to find rest in Christ. "The grass withers and the flower fades" was a lesson learned in early youth as the grass and weeds in the churchy property demonstrated the truth of that fact. The rest of the verse, "but the Word of the Lord abides forever" has been preached here at Ottawa throughout the years, and has brought joy, peace, and hope to many needy souls.
The church continues to stand as an oasis for any and all who need nourishment and refreshment. It stands as a lighthouse sending out its beams of light to people in all walks of life, and gives direction to those who are tossed about by the rough waters of life. God had a plan for the Ottawa Congregation which few people in those early days could have dreamed possible. Out of those seeds planted in faith, nourished by the Spirit's favor, blessed by our loving Heavenly Father, has grown a mighty oak, offering a refuge for the lonely traveler. Out of the faithfulness and commitment of a few has come a people strong in the Lord, and joyful in his service. Out of the blow-sand and sand burrs has come a people, a congregation, "as a tree planted by the rivers of water."
After moving in 1918 from Zeeland to the farm on the corner of Stanton and 104th, we had our church membership transferred from the Third CRC of Zeeland to Rusk CRC. We didn't remain there very long before transferring to the Ottawa Reformed Church. This was possibly due to the fact that Ottawa was closer than Rusk. And where is Ottawa? People often asked that question. The location of the church is easily identified as midway between 112th and 116th on Stanton St., but to identify Ottawa as a specific location is a bit more difficult. It is not a town. It has no shopping area. There are no stores or gas stations. There was once a school which still stands, but has been abandoned. There once was a railroad station in the general area according to early history. Ottawa is more a concept in the minds of the people. It encompasses a large area or a relatively limited area, according to the interpretation of specific people, but one thing is certain, the church has been and continues to be the core, the heart, the identifying point of everything that is Ottawa. The present church property is beautifully landscaped, including impressive facilities. Most of the structures are relatively new. They have a beautiful sanctuary, an impressive new parsonage, a recently completed large gym, with many classrooms, a large athletic field equipped for various sports, and acres of wooded beauty. Things were not always as prosperous and outstanding.
The Ottawa area is one of generally substandard soil. Farmers worked the fields, but the returns were often minimal. They worked hard and long to eke out a mere existence, and that is what it often amounted to. The church property amounted to about an acre of bleak, wind-swept, barren land on which not a tree grew except for one on the northeast corner of the property. In the Spring of the year a few green tufts of grass appeared, but most of the ground cover was weeds which later in the year bore those miserable sand burrs. The greenery soon disappeared with the first heat of Summer, and the drought which soon followed. This area took on a desert appearance as the vegetation disappeared and the open ground gave way to the blast of winds, creating a blow-sand condition. A small white wood framed building on the Northwest corner on the property served as the church. Another small building set somewhat farther back along the west property line was the ladies outhouse. On the Southwest corner stood another building, the horse barn. This served a dual purpose. In the Winter the horses which were used to pull the sleigh and carry people to church, were housed in the horse barn during the service. It also served as the men's outhouse all year around. The smells which greeted you when you first stepped into the building were not the most pleasant, but you soon got accustomed to it. The sand floors made sanitation problems less troublesome. Clean up was less urgent. The loose, wind swept sand near the entrance to the church property created a challenge for young men driving their father's car to the Christian Endeavor Meetings on Sunday night. Some men entered the property at a pretty good rate of speed, cranked the steering wheel sharply to the right or left, shifted to a lower gear, stepped on the gas, and sent the sand and dirt sailing. The church property soon took on the appearance of a plowed field with deep furrows created by the spinning wheels of cars. Undoubtedly, few fathers knew how their cars were being put to the test every Sunday night.
The church itself was a small white wooden structure, long blasted by the Winter storms of snow and rain, and scorched by the blistering hot sun and winds of Summer. The entrance led to a small vestibule with a door leading into the sanctuary to the right and one to the left. Inside were three rows of benches. The benches along the walls were small, holding about four people comfortably. The center section of pews was larger, each bench holding possibly eight people quite comfortably. The total seating capacity was possibly 124 to 150, but the church was rarely filled. The normal attendance at a regular service was about 50 people. Undoubtedly our family of eleven was warmly welcomed to fill in some of the vacant spaces. The only time the church was filled was on special occasions such as the Christmas Program or the like. Originally the church had only a partial basement where the coal and furnace rooms were located. One large register in the middle of the floor in front of the pulpit served to heat the entire church. On cold days the heat never became distributed to the farthest corners. Sitting against the outside walls could also be a chilling experience. The church was served by seminarians from the Western Theological Seminary in Holland and by classical appointments of ministers in the Holland-Zeeland area. The congregation could not afford a minister of its own. We heard many notable preachers and some not so notable, but we were not in a position to complain. Some of the Summer student assignments became prominent leaders in the Reformed Church. Musical accompaniment at services was simple. A piano was used whenever someone could be found capable of playing it. It didn't matter if that person was particularly capable or not. The services of anyone capable of putting a few notes together were sincerely appreciated. There were no accomplished singers, but everyone sang out with gusto and from the heart. Song books were available, but not often used, because the songs chosen were known by heart. Most of the songs requested were by title or first line, seldom by page number. Hymn numbers were provided primarily for the pianist. Many of the songs which were precious to us then are no longer heard today. The repetition of those songs, so rich in meaning, became indelibly etched in our minds. One of the choruses sung quite frequently at our C.E. Meetings still rings in my ears and provides much comfort and assurance. Here are the words:
Oh the love that wrought salvation's plan,
Oh the grace that brought it down to man,
Oh the mighty gulf that God did span, on Calvary.
Mercy there was great and grace was free,
Pardon there was multiplied to me,
There my guilty soul found liberty, at Calvary.
Christian Endeavor (C.E.) Meetings for the young people were held on Sunday evenings. Regular church services were held only in the morning. Having no minister of our own, C.E. meetings were conducted by the young people themselves. Occasionally an outside speaker would lead the Bible lesson and discussion, but generally the meetings were lead by members of the society. Sentence prayers, in which many participated, were a usual part of the meeting. Many rich and abiding experiences resulted from those meetings.
Any historical reference to the Ottawa Reformed Church should include an acknowledgment of the services of a couple people who contributed much and were instrumental in binding the church together. These people are Charlie Kuyers, his wife Clara, and sisters Emma and Alice Kuyers. They lived in Holland, but for years they came faithfully every Sunday. They attended services in their own church on Sunday morning, but every Sunday morning they could be counted on to be parked near the front entrance to our church, waiting for our services to end. They would then join in our Sunday School program, each teaching a class. Charlie always taught the Young Men's class. He was not highly educated, possibly eight grades, but what he lacked in formal education, he compensated for by being a student of the Bible and well versed in the Scriptures. One thing never to be forgotten was his Bible. The edges of the pages were worn and soiled from paging back and forth while searching the Scriptures. I often envied him for having such a Bible which bore evidence of the fact that it was well read and used and was not left to collect dust somewhere on a shelf. He was a fine Christian who loved to teach the Word and who lived it as well. After S.S., they would go to their parents who went to Ottawa, stayed there for dinner, spent the afternoon with them, and then came to the C.E. meetings at night. Their love, concern, and devotion are immeasurable and very much appreciated. Charlie and Clara have both joined the Heavenly Throng about which they often spoke, and for which they longed with eager anticipation. To the best of my knowledge, Emma and Alice are still living and reside in Holland.
Years came and went. Gradually, slowly at first, more people moved into the area and more people joined the congregation. God had not forsaken His faithful few. Many changes took place over a period of time. A full basement under the church became a reality, the small white structure was enlarged by the addition of more classroom space and then the big change, a parsonage was built by mostly volunteer labor. The congregation was ready to move forward. At the appropriate time a call was extended to Howard Teusink, a student at Western Theological Seminary, one who had served the congregation during the Summer months. The call was accepted, and Rev. and Mrs. Teusink became the first occupants of the new parsonage. There was great joy and excitement in the congregation. Rev. Teusink was just the man for the time and place. He endeared himself to the congregation by his charm, warmth of personality, caring attitude, concern for all, and by the exercise of his abilities as a pastor and teacher. He and his wife became one with the congregation as members of the family of God
The church continued to grow. The area was taking on a new look. The Government Reforestation Program was being implemented. The sand hills and barren fields were being planted with pine trees. Christmas tree planting as well as shrubs and blueberries became big business. All this was done in areas and on lands which previously produced nothing, or at most very little. Standing pines and other tree plantings now rise to great heights. The barren fields have become productive. The blow-sand and sand burrs of yesterday have been replaced by a greenery which has enhanced the area and has drawn many families into the community. Some of the old landmarks still remain, but in addition new homes have been built on every crossroad. Couples who formerly married and moved out are now finding the community a quiet, peaceful place to live and raise a family, and are establishing homes in the area. Attendance at the church services continued to increase. Physical properties began to change dramatically over the years. In recent years a large beautiful new parsonage and an impressive new sanctuary were constructed. The new parsonage now stands at approximately the same spot as the former church building. Before long an addition was necessary to accommodate the increase in membership and attendance. In 1992, a large beautiful gym along with several classrooms and utility rooms was completed and dedicated. God had blessed the congregation far beyond anything any of the old-timers would have dreamed possible.
The congregation now has a Pastor and an Associate Pastor. The ministry of the church has remained true to God's Word, and continues in a caring and sharing ministry to all. Its outreach program invites all who are weary and heavy laden to find rest in Christ. "The grass withers and the flower fades" was a lesson learned in early youth as the grass and weeds in the churchy property demonstrated the truth of that fact. The rest of the verse, "but the Word of the Lord abides forever" has been preached here at Ottawa throughout the years, and has brought joy, peace, and hope to many needy souls.
The church continues to stand as an oasis for any and all who need nourishment and refreshment. It stands as a lighthouse sending out its beams of light to people in all walks of life, and gives direction to those who are tossed about by the rough waters of life. God had a plan for the Ottawa Congregation which few people in those early days could have dreamed possible. Out of those seeds planted in faith, nourished by the Spirit's favor, blessed by our loving Heavenly Father, has grown a mighty oak, offering a refuge for the lonely traveler. Out of the faithfulness and commitment of a few has come a people strong in the Lord, and joyful in his service. Out of the blow-sand and sand burrs has come a people, a congregation, "as a tree planted by the rivers of water."
MILK HAULING
This topic has been touched on before, but not in great detail. With a large family such as ours, and farming being not all that lucrative, Dad sought other sources of income. Sometimes he would take jobs with the county or township hauling sand and gravel for road repairs. This was done with horses and wagon, and had to be hauled a considerable distance sometimes. It was hard work, and seasonal. Generally in the Spring there was hauling to do, but for the rest of the year there wasn't much activity. Something of interest relates to the method of hauling. The boards forming the floor of the wagon box were sometimes warped and did not fit closely together. The side boards were also not all that rigid to hold the sand from bulging the boards outward. The route from the source of supply to its destination was always clearly marked by sand or gravel which had sifted out through the cracks during the trip. Any bump in the road created a considerable accumulation of vanishing load.
Dad also hauled other things. We grew sugar beets, and these had to be brought to the sugar beet factory in Holland. He hauled those, along with others along the way. He also hauled fertilizer from the plant on James St. near 138th Ave. in Holland. This was heavy work, and I can still see our old truck bent low beneath its burden. He delivered door to door to those who had placed an order
Sometime, possibly in the late twenties or early thirties, Dad began hauling milk from farmers to the receiving station of Mead Johnson on the corner of 96th Ave. and Fillmore. Long after the receiving station closed, the location was known as Meadville. A home now stands on that location, and Fillmore St., which at that tie was little more than a cow path, is now a widened, blacktop road commonly referred to as the "speedway." Brother George had a picture of Dad standing alongside of his truck, and George standing by his truck, as they waited in line to unload their milk at the receiving station. To the best of my knowledge, the one truck was a '26 Chevy, and the other was a '29 Chevy. Special note should be taken of the fact that they were both Chevy trucks. In my Dad's estimation that was the only good truck made. George had another picture of the trucks parked on the boulevard on the farm with the fronts angled toward each other. It would have been nice making duplicates of those pictures as well as many others. George was the family photographer. Following his death, we never had a chance to make a selection of the pictures he possessed.
At first the hauling was simple. No special equipment was needed. A truck with a platform and an open rack to keep the cans from falling off was sufficient. As time went on, regulations increased and changes had to be made. First, a closed rack was necessary. Then came the requirement that the top had to be covered. A canvas covering was added. Before long the canvas top had to be replaced by a wooden hinged top. With all these changes came additional costs and increased cost of operation. About this time, Meadville closed, and milk had to be hauled into Zeeland. Then came the requirement that the milk had to be iced down during transit. Mead Johnson provided a large insulated box which was filled each day at the plant for the following day. Then, at a particular stop ice was chipped and placed around the cans already filled with milk. At the final pickup, the last of the ice was placed around the remaining cans.
The big blow came when a new regulation required that all trucks had to be equipped with insulated bodies. These were very expensive, and Dad didn't think he could afford to make the change. He seriously considered selling the routes, but one day placed an order for the new unit. We were notified when the body was ready, and we went to Rockford to pick it up. It was really quite something as milk truck bodies go, but it restricted the use of the truck to milk hauling. In anticipation of getting the new body, we toured the entire route one day, Dad on the truck with a pruning hook and saw, cutting down the branches which protruded into the roadway. This was to prevent the new body from being scratched up. We didn't get all the branches, because it wasn't long before the sides of the body were scratched up.
Dad had two milk routes. One covered the Allendale, Pearline area (now consolidated with Allendale) as far east as 58th St., now the entrance to Grand Valley College. His route then turned south along the gravel pits and west along the Grand River. He followed Warner St. east to 92nd Ave. With several stops along the way, including stops along side roads leading from Warner. On 92nd he turned south to M-45, turned west to 96th Ave., and then south all the way to Zeeland. The last stop was at Mart Elenbaas near the corner of Stanton and 96th. It was at this stop that we quite often witnessed two other milk haulers, Warnede and Buhrer, breeze by blowing their horns to let us know they were in the lead. I'm sure Dad never engaged in the practice of racing other truckers to the plant in an effort to get there first, and not having to wait, but I know of some instances when substitute drivers hurriedly loaded up the cans of milk at Mart Elenbaas and took off after the other trucker. We raced full speed all the way to Zeeland, bumper to bumper. At the Washington St. stop light, if one trucker turned left, the other would go through to Main and then turn left. Mead Johnson was located on East Main, and the battle was on as to who would get there first. Sometimes we lost and sometimes we won. Antics such as this can now be told, but it would not have been wise to speak about that at the time. Such information would not have been favorably received.
At one stop on the route, that of Eugene Ten Brink, it was necessary to "Top deck." Two shelves or decks were mounted, one on the front and the other on the back end of the enclosed box. The deck was just high enough to clear the top of other cans of milk placed on the floor level. It was convenient to do this at Gene's stop, because he had anywhere from ten to fifteen cans of milk of his own. By the time we had all his empty cans removed, we had space to work. We then took full cans of milk out of his cooler tanks in the milk house, out to truck, and lift them on the truck. When that job was completed, we could drive off with a sigh of relief, plus maybe a pain in the back.
The route that George took covered the North Blendon, Bauer, and South Blendon area. He continued to haul milk until G.M. opened its stamping division in Grand Rapids. He got a job there and gave up trucking. Dad hired temporary help until 1936, when he was able to sell the route.
Dad worked hard to build up his two milk routes. Pick up at various farmers and delivery to Zeeland usually took the entire morning. He then had to work the rest of the day on the farm. He enjoyed his milk route and the contacts he was able to make. Continual changes in regulations by Mead Johnson caused considerable agony. Meads carried out a strict program of inspections. Their demands were high in an attempt to obtain and maintain sanitary conditions of the farms, milk houses, and barns. Farmers were continually complaining to dad about new regulations. There was nothing he could do other than sympathize with them. He was also subject to strict regulations in the pick up and delivery of the milk.
Then one day a traumatic thing happened. He was informed that pickup and delivery would have to be done seven days of the week. Up to this time the milk of Saturday night, Sunday morning and night and Monday morning was all picked up on Monday morning. Admittedly, there were some problems related to a long week-end hold over, especially in the summertime. Meads decided milk could no longer be held at the farms longer than one day. This was a shocker! It resulted in many troubling experiences. It must be understood that in those days working on Sunday was a "no, no." Anyone engaged in Sunday labor was looked upon with disfavor and scorn. Dad received a lot of advice. Most of it was to give up the milk route and not participate in Sunday hauling. In a way the situation was amusing. The farmers appreciated having their milk picked up on Sunday, but they discouraged Dad from picking it up. They thought that was wrong, but to willingly participate in the program by making their milk available was all right. If they had refused to send their milk on Sunday, maybe some other resolution could have been worked out. Some "well-meaning" friends and relatives, whose lives were known to "miss the mark" quite frequently were the strongest in their criticism. Dad decided to continue hauling and was criticized by many and severely reprimanded by others.
This was a difficult time for Dad and Mom. The milk routes were their main source of income. With a family of our size, giving up the source of income would have created problems. But the question wrestled with was, are those problems insurmountable? Would not God provide something else? Essential work was considered legitimate on Sunday, but was this legitimate? Some agreed it was, and others insisted it wasn't. Mead Johnson insisted that daily pick up was absolutely necessary in order to insure milk of high quality and to prevent it from spoiling. Some maintained that since Sunday pick up was not found to be necessary in the past, a change was not necessary. Differences of opinion by the opposition sometimes brought out some ridiculous statements. Sometimes the same reasons were used by those who agreed to the practice as those who disagreed.
The date for the change to seven days arrived. Dad decided to continue. Only a couple of smaller farmers reacted against the change and sent their milk to a different processor. It was with a strange feeling that we watched Dad leave on that first Sunday to pick up milk. We knew how he had struggled with the decision and imagined that even now as he rode along, he was not entirely at ease. Defending his decision and action become a regular episode.
As previously mentioned, I took Dad's route on various occasions, and I well remember the first time I took it on Sunday. I had somewhat of a guilt feeling, a law breaker, and imagined that every car I met contained people who were opposed to Sunday labor and had me singled out as a primary offender. As time went on, we became accustomed to the schedule, and maybe hardened to criticism. Even our own consciences didn't condemn us as severely anymore. As is true in many situations in life, repetition of wrong-doing reduces the feeling of guilt each time the action is repeated. We felt justified in what we were doing, but remarks continued to reach our ears reflecting the opinion of others. Maybe there was somewhat of a guilt feeling which entered into our reaction and interpretation of remarks.
New regulations continued to flow from Mead Johnson regarding sanitary conditions in the barn and in the storage and transportation of milk. Stable areas, including the floors, had to be whitewashed. Milk houses had to be built and located a specific distance from the barn. This building had to be kept spotless. The normal milking procedure of placing the milk can behind the cows and filling it as each cow was milked was no longer permitted. The milk cans had to be kept in the milk house and after each cow was milked, separate trips had to be made to the milk house. On rainy, cold, snowy, winter days, this was not appreciated. The milk had to be cooled down immediately by placing the cans in tanks of cold water. As mentioned before, we had a source of real cold water at the flowing well located a short distance out in the field behind the barn. When the milking was completed at night, we hauled the cans in the truck to the well. We secured the cans in the side of the well and left them there over night along with the truck. The first chore in the morning was to walk to the well, put the cans back in the truck, and haul them back to the barn. This procedure was followed only in the summertime.
When electricity became available, many farmers purchased milk coolers which in effect were regular refrigerator units with a special agitator. This agitator, when placed in the can, stirred the milk and helped the cooling process.
Another requirement on hot summer days was to carry a supply of ice in an insulated box on the truck. This insulated box could hold possibly a 100 lb. cake of ice. About half way through the route, and also at the last pick up, the cake of ice was chipped into smaller pieces which were scattered over the tops and along the sides of the cans. How effective this was in keeping the milk cool may be questioned, but it sure created a lot of additional work. Each day, on hot summer days, the ice box had to be refilled following the unloading of milk at Meads. With a fresh supply of ice, we were ready for the next day.
This topic has been touched on before, but not in great detail. With a large family such as ours, and farming being not all that lucrative, Dad sought other sources of income. Sometimes he would take jobs with the county or township hauling sand and gravel for road repairs. This was done with horses and wagon, and had to be hauled a considerable distance sometimes. It was hard work, and seasonal. Generally in the Spring there was hauling to do, but for the rest of the year there wasn't much activity. Something of interest relates to the method of hauling. The boards forming the floor of the wagon box were sometimes warped and did not fit closely together. The side boards were also not all that rigid to hold the sand from bulging the boards outward. The route from the source of supply to its destination was always clearly marked by sand or gravel which had sifted out through the cracks during the trip. Any bump in the road created a considerable accumulation of vanishing load.
Dad also hauled other things. We grew sugar beets, and these had to be brought to the sugar beet factory in Holland. He hauled those, along with others along the way. He also hauled fertilizer from the plant on James St. near 138th Ave. in Holland. This was heavy work, and I can still see our old truck bent low beneath its burden. He delivered door to door to those who had placed an order
Sometime, possibly in the late twenties or early thirties, Dad began hauling milk from farmers to the receiving station of Mead Johnson on the corner of 96th Ave. and Fillmore. Long after the receiving station closed, the location was known as Meadville. A home now stands on that location, and Fillmore St., which at that tie was little more than a cow path, is now a widened, blacktop road commonly referred to as the "speedway." Brother George had a picture of Dad standing alongside of his truck, and George standing by his truck, as they waited in line to unload their milk at the receiving station. To the best of my knowledge, the one truck was a '26 Chevy, and the other was a '29 Chevy. Special note should be taken of the fact that they were both Chevy trucks. In my Dad's estimation that was the only good truck made. George had another picture of the trucks parked on the boulevard on the farm with the fronts angled toward each other. It would have been nice making duplicates of those pictures as well as many others. George was the family photographer. Following his death, we never had a chance to make a selection of the pictures he possessed.
At first the hauling was simple. No special equipment was needed. A truck with a platform and an open rack to keep the cans from falling off was sufficient. As time went on, regulations increased and changes had to be made. First, a closed rack was necessary. Then came the requirement that the top had to be covered. A canvas covering was added. Before long the canvas top had to be replaced by a wooden hinged top. With all these changes came additional costs and increased cost of operation. About this time, Meadville closed, and milk had to be hauled into Zeeland. Then came the requirement that the milk had to be iced down during transit. Mead Johnson provided a large insulated box which was filled each day at the plant for the following day. Then, at a particular stop ice was chipped and placed around the cans already filled with milk. At the final pickup, the last of the ice was placed around the remaining cans.
The big blow came when a new regulation required that all trucks had to be equipped with insulated bodies. These were very expensive, and Dad didn't think he could afford to make the change. He seriously considered selling the routes, but one day placed an order for the new unit. We were notified when the body was ready, and we went to Rockford to pick it up. It was really quite something as milk truck bodies go, but it restricted the use of the truck to milk hauling. In anticipation of getting the new body, we toured the entire route one day, Dad on the truck with a pruning hook and saw, cutting down the branches which protruded into the roadway. This was to prevent the new body from being scratched up. We didn't get all the branches, because it wasn't long before the sides of the body were scratched up.
Dad had two milk routes. One covered the Allendale, Pearline area (now consolidated with Allendale) as far east as 58th St., now the entrance to Grand Valley College. His route then turned south along the gravel pits and west along the Grand River. He followed Warner St. east to 92nd Ave. With several stops along the way, including stops along side roads leading from Warner. On 92nd he turned south to M-45, turned west to 96th Ave., and then south all the way to Zeeland. The last stop was at Mart Elenbaas near the corner of Stanton and 96th. It was at this stop that we quite often witnessed two other milk haulers, Warnede and Buhrer, breeze by blowing their horns to let us know they were in the lead. I'm sure Dad never engaged in the practice of racing other truckers to the plant in an effort to get there first, and not having to wait, but I know of some instances when substitute drivers hurriedly loaded up the cans of milk at Mart Elenbaas and took off after the other trucker. We raced full speed all the way to Zeeland, bumper to bumper. At the Washington St. stop light, if one trucker turned left, the other would go through to Main and then turn left. Mead Johnson was located on East Main, and the battle was on as to who would get there first. Sometimes we lost and sometimes we won. Antics such as this can now be told, but it would not have been wise to speak about that at the time. Such information would not have been favorably received.
At one stop on the route, that of Eugene Ten Brink, it was necessary to "Top deck." Two shelves or decks were mounted, one on the front and the other on the back end of the enclosed box. The deck was just high enough to clear the top of other cans of milk placed on the floor level. It was convenient to do this at Gene's stop, because he had anywhere from ten to fifteen cans of milk of his own. By the time we had all his empty cans removed, we had space to work. We then took full cans of milk out of his cooler tanks in the milk house, out to truck, and lift them on the truck. When that job was completed, we could drive off with a sigh of relief, plus maybe a pain in the back.
The route that George took covered the North Blendon, Bauer, and South Blendon area. He continued to haul milk until G.M. opened its stamping division in Grand Rapids. He got a job there and gave up trucking. Dad hired temporary help until 1936, when he was able to sell the route.
Dad worked hard to build up his two milk routes. Pick up at various farmers and delivery to Zeeland usually took the entire morning. He then had to work the rest of the day on the farm. He enjoyed his milk route and the contacts he was able to make. Continual changes in regulations by Mead Johnson caused considerable agony. Meads carried out a strict program of inspections. Their demands were high in an attempt to obtain and maintain sanitary conditions of the farms, milk houses, and barns. Farmers were continually complaining to dad about new regulations. There was nothing he could do other than sympathize with them. He was also subject to strict regulations in the pick up and delivery of the milk.
Then one day a traumatic thing happened. He was informed that pickup and delivery would have to be done seven days of the week. Up to this time the milk of Saturday night, Sunday morning and night and Monday morning was all picked up on Monday morning. Admittedly, there were some problems related to a long week-end hold over, especially in the summertime. Meads decided milk could no longer be held at the farms longer than one day. This was a shocker! It resulted in many troubling experiences. It must be understood that in those days working on Sunday was a "no, no." Anyone engaged in Sunday labor was looked upon with disfavor and scorn. Dad received a lot of advice. Most of it was to give up the milk route and not participate in Sunday hauling. In a way the situation was amusing. The farmers appreciated having their milk picked up on Sunday, but they discouraged Dad from picking it up. They thought that was wrong, but to willingly participate in the program by making their milk available was all right. If they had refused to send their milk on Sunday, maybe some other resolution could have been worked out. Some "well-meaning" friends and relatives, whose lives were known to "miss the mark" quite frequently were the strongest in their criticism. Dad decided to continue hauling and was criticized by many and severely reprimanded by others.
This was a difficult time for Dad and Mom. The milk routes were their main source of income. With a family of our size, giving up the source of income would have created problems. But the question wrestled with was, are those problems insurmountable? Would not God provide something else? Essential work was considered legitimate on Sunday, but was this legitimate? Some agreed it was, and others insisted it wasn't. Mead Johnson insisted that daily pick up was absolutely necessary in order to insure milk of high quality and to prevent it from spoiling. Some maintained that since Sunday pick up was not found to be necessary in the past, a change was not necessary. Differences of opinion by the opposition sometimes brought out some ridiculous statements. Sometimes the same reasons were used by those who agreed to the practice as those who disagreed.
The date for the change to seven days arrived. Dad decided to continue. Only a couple of smaller farmers reacted against the change and sent their milk to a different processor. It was with a strange feeling that we watched Dad leave on that first Sunday to pick up milk. We knew how he had struggled with the decision and imagined that even now as he rode along, he was not entirely at ease. Defending his decision and action become a regular episode.
As previously mentioned, I took Dad's route on various occasions, and I well remember the first time I took it on Sunday. I had somewhat of a guilt feeling, a law breaker, and imagined that every car I met contained people who were opposed to Sunday labor and had me singled out as a primary offender. As time went on, we became accustomed to the schedule, and maybe hardened to criticism. Even our own consciences didn't condemn us as severely anymore. As is true in many situations in life, repetition of wrong-doing reduces the feeling of guilt each time the action is repeated. We felt justified in what we were doing, but remarks continued to reach our ears reflecting the opinion of others. Maybe there was somewhat of a guilt feeling which entered into our reaction and interpretation of remarks.
New regulations continued to flow from Mead Johnson regarding sanitary conditions in the barn and in the storage and transportation of milk. Stable areas, including the floors, had to be whitewashed. Milk houses had to be built and located a specific distance from the barn. This building had to be kept spotless. The normal milking procedure of placing the milk can behind the cows and filling it as each cow was milked was no longer permitted. The milk cans had to be kept in the milk house and after each cow was milked, separate trips had to be made to the milk house. On rainy, cold, snowy, winter days, this was not appreciated. The milk had to be cooled down immediately by placing the cans in tanks of cold water. As mentioned before, we had a source of real cold water at the flowing well located a short distance out in the field behind the barn. When the milking was completed at night, we hauled the cans in the truck to the well. We secured the cans in the side of the well and left them there over night along with the truck. The first chore in the morning was to walk to the well, put the cans back in the truck, and haul them back to the barn. This procedure was followed only in the summertime.
When electricity became available, many farmers purchased milk coolers which in effect were regular refrigerator units with a special agitator. This agitator, when placed in the can, stirred the milk and helped the cooling process.
Another requirement on hot summer days was to carry a supply of ice in an insulated box on the truck. This insulated box could hold possibly a 100 lb. cake of ice. About half way through the route, and also at the last pick up, the cake of ice was chipped into smaller pieces which were scattered over the tops and along the sides of the cans. How effective this was in keeping the milk cool may be questioned, but it sure created a lot of additional work. Each day, on hot summer days, the ice box had to be refilled following the unloading of milk at Meads. With a fresh supply of ice, we were ready for the next day.
OPERATION AND RECOVERY
In August of 1990, a blockage in my left eye resulted in a period of treatments which led to a steady decline in my health. Prolonged and excessive use of the drug prednisone, prescribed by Dr. Gras in an effort to clear up the blockage in my eye resulted in a steady deterioration of my health. There followed endless referrals by Dr. Oostendorp to specialists in various fields of medicine in an effort to get to the bottom of my problem. Dr. Gras was no longer consulted. He never did come up with a diagnosis of my blockage. The continued use of prednisone was recommended in an attempt to control my sed rate. Every specialist we visited was alarmed over the dosage of prednisone prescribed. My health continued to decline. X-rays and cat-scans were commonplace. Specialists detected an aneurysm on my brain and prostrate problems, but no positive diagnosis of why I continued to be tired and increasingly so. One day in a telephone conversation with brother Jay, he asked if I had ever had a cat-scan of the abdomen. I had not. He suggested I ask my doctor for such a scan. After mentioning it to Dr. Oostendorp, he scheduled such a scan. It was then that abscesses were found in the pancreas and abdomen. About the same time, I was admitted to the hospital for prostate problems. Surgery was recommended as well as surgery to determine the spread of abscesses and degree of penetration. By now my energy was almost gone, and my weight had fallen to 122 lbs. A dual operation was scheduled for Feb. 27, 1991.
The following eight weeks were spent in the Zeeland Hospital recovering from the operations. This was a period of strange physical and emotional experiences. There was an awareness of tubes in and out of my body, monitoring machines, antibiotic and food containers hanging on poles beside my bed. At the same time there was a strange feeling of peace and unconcern in spite of the almost constant attention given me. There was a feeling of detachment from all that was happening. There were periods of hallucinations when I seemed to be in another world. The hospital room took on different forms. Except for a short time in intensive care, I remained in the same room, but sometimes it seemed I was in an office with long corridors with people rushing back and forth. At other times I seemed to be absent from all that was real, and saw only a misty cloudy environment through which I floated. Sometimes my room seemed to be in a factory and sometimes my room appeared to be in the basement adjoining the laundry room. Doctors came and went, but identifying them was impossible.
A strange reaction often occurred when people came to visit. After they had left, and after I realized someone had been in to see me, I couldn't recall who they were. One time I asked if Sadie had been to see me only to learn that she had been there with me all day. Another time I asked about Jeanette, only to learn that she had just left the room. There were periods of semi-consciousness and undoubtedly semi-conscious behavior. I have often wondered about actions and reactions at times such as that. It seemed that I was being moved frequently about the hospital, only to learn later that except for intensive care, I remained in the same room.
There were many wonderful nurses in the hospital. Some were especially kind, considerate, and concerned. The service was great and the attention received was wonderfully compassionate. Unfortunately the names of most of the nurses have been forgotten. One particularly sweet lady was a Mrs. Lankheet. She often came into my room not by assignment, but to just sit and talk. Her mother was the former Mae De Jonge, whom I knew from Ottawa Church days. Another especially kind and thoughtful girl was the head nurse. She was always trying to do something to keep me comfortable and happy. Two young girls who came early in the morning to weigh me were especially sweet and considerate. They were always cheerful and happy. Unfortunately, their identity remains unknown. Dr. Van Wylen and Dr. Oostendorp will never be forgotten. Having Dr. Van Wylen call was always a pleasure. He always showed a real concern and often told us he was praying for us. One time he took my hand and said, "Let's have a prayer together." That meant more to me than all the medications and procedures applied. Even after returning home, they volunteered to visit me at home. Dr. Van Wylen often called from the hospital or from his car telephone saying "Sadie, is it all right if I stop in? I am close by and will be there shortly." And he did. Dr. Oostendorp also called at the house on different occasions. That kind of attention is unheard of today. House calls are simply not made today.
At he end of eight weeks, I was recommended for release to return home because I was reportedly depressed. I did not realize this, but they must have observed something I did not feel. Going home should have been an experience of great excitement, but I hardly knew what was happening. I was brought into a place which seemed like a warehouse with boxes piled high against the walls and people coming and going continually. Slowly on the reality of being home in our den on a hospital bed began to emerge. A nurse in the morning, followed by a nurse's aide, and a nurse in the evening became part of our daily schedule. The burden of care and attention, however, fell on Sadie. I soon began to realize the tremendous responsibility she had been given. She had sheet after sheet of instructions for daily care, for the operation of equipment, and what to do when malfunctions occurred. She had no previous experience, and burdens were overwhelming. I remember conversations we had with doctors, nurses, and equipment suppliers. Everything was so confusing and complicated. I remember hearing her crying and crying in the bedroom. It really hurt to hear her cry, and I wished and wished there was something I could do. There was nothing to be done. I was totally dependent. I prayed and prayed that the Lord would take me. I should never have been sent home. I should have gone to a nursing home. Sadie learned later about the doctor's opinion that I would be back in the hospital within two weeks. The fact that I didn't return is a tribute to Sadie's determination to keep me home.
She was always busy taking care of me, not only during the day, but at night as well. In fact, some of the most trying experiences happened at night. She slept on a couch right next to my bed. She was awake with the slightest movement I made, and getting back to sleep was not easy for her. Many, many times things went wrong in the middle of the night. The feeling of helplessness often swept over her as she tried to get the feeding machine back in operation again. My ileostomy often caused problems, requiring a complete change of the bedding. The changing of the bedding doesn't sound too complicated, but try it once with someone in bed who is unable to move a muscle or assist in any way. Then too, she had to be careful how she moved me. With various tubes attached and monitoring machines, the job was very difficult. After removing all the dirty bedding and cleaning me off, she had to replace everything with clean bedding. All this had to be done while I lay helpless and unable to assist. Imagine going through all of this and then placing the dirty linen in the washing machine, washing it out, and then finally being able to lie down and try to sleep. Her sleep was always being interrupted. Some nights she hardly slept at all. Her days were filled from morning to night with preparations. She wasn't taking time to eat and when she did, what she ate didn't amount to anything. She was steadily wasting away. She had no appetite. Donated food, brought in by friends, mostly remained uneaten. I was very much concerned over her welfare.
Answering the telephone and entertaining visitors was time consuming. They were all well meaning, but some come at very inopportune times. Besides, these calls and visits required a lot of time giving complete and updated information. Sadie always sat in the room whenever someone came, because she was in a better position to provide the information and answer the questions which were asked. Now, don't get me wrong. These calls and visits were very much appreciated and demonstrated a love and concern on the part of many. Those who came unannounced generally created the biggest problem. Most people stayed only a short time, but some made a habit of staying too long.
Sadie continued to lose weight, and the frustrations became more and more evident. I tried to encourage her to accept help, but she wanted to do it all by herself. She became depressed more frequently and the weight of her load became too much for her. Physically , she was becoming worn out, and emotionally she was becoming drained. She was giving her total self for me, and my fear was that my recovery might not come soon enough to salvage something of her being. Looking back upon the episode, I have regrets that my prolonged illness resulted in having such a devastating effect on her life and condition. She would have had it no other way. She was determined to take care of me no matter what. This she did most efficiently. I couldn't have gotten better treatment anywhere. Her love and concern will never be forgotten. I owe my life to her. I will never be able to fully express my appreciation to her for all she has done, and the burden is still not fully lifted. My limitations continue to create more work and responsibility for her. Something which will continue to plague me is the fact that frustrations of the present are a result of the stresses and strains she experienced while caring for me. What she is today is but a part of her former self. And the part which no longer finds expression is due to the impositions placed upon her during my illness. She realizes that there are many things which bother her now which never before created a problem. There are many things which she formerly performed without prior consideration which now are major obstacles. She doesn't complain and is happy and contented with things as they are, but I see the evidences of change and frustration, and these evidences are disturbing to me. As evidence, and as an acknowledgment of her great performance, she was awarded an honorary nurse's certificate by the nurses who attended me at home. She surely was deserving of it. It was all in fun, but it was earned.
After about seven months in a hospital bed at home, we finally got rid of it. My recovery continued rather slowly. Small improvements appeared like big advances. But for Sadie, the scars remain. This is what bothers me most. She has gained back part of her lost weight, but the emotional damage continues. Little things that she always took in stride, are now major hurdles. Responsibilities which she normally gave little thought to now seem insurmountable. Details which she never gave a second thought to are now oppressive and depressing. She has a way of covering up some of the feelings and reactions, but underneath I know there is a burning antagonizing battle going on which is wearing her down. And of course, my recovery didn't spell the end of her responsibilities at all. I still couldn't do much to relieve her burdens. My failing eyesight required her to do all the driving, something she never appreciated doing. Adjustments had to be made and we made them. We don't go out much anymore, we don't do as much visiting and we stay close to home. With an iliostomy which requires frequent attention, it has been known to cause severe problems. Then too with my eyesight such as it is restricting an appreciation for environmental sights and scenes, going any distance is somewhat hazardous and sometimes unattractive. My only regret is that my restrictions also affect Sadie. I know there are times when she would like to get out if it were only possible for me to drive, but she never complains. She is always content to stay home.
Some people seem to have difficulty understanding our situation and continue to suggest that we should go here or there, or do this or that. When we turn down their suggestion, they sometimes appear amazed. This is our lot in life and we are determined to make the best of it. We thank God continually for the things we are still able to do together. We have gained a new appreciation for things like a pleasant place to live, a comfortable home, good appetite, plenty to eat, bodies which although restricted in some ways are still normal in many ways. We have been drawn closer together as husband and wife, and our love for each other has grown stronger and more meaningful. We have gained a new appreciation for the passage of time, and we have learned to trust God more. He still speaks to us in every circumstance, "Fear not, I will be with you always, even unto the end of time." This is our confidence and trust both now and for everyday He gives us to live. These words of the old hymn come to mind, "When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll," through calm and storm our anchor still holds and we have the solid confident assurance that "it is well, it is well with my soul."
In August of 1990, a blockage in my left eye resulted in a period of treatments which led to a steady decline in my health. Prolonged and excessive use of the drug prednisone, prescribed by Dr. Gras in an effort to clear up the blockage in my eye resulted in a steady deterioration of my health. There followed endless referrals by Dr. Oostendorp to specialists in various fields of medicine in an effort to get to the bottom of my problem. Dr. Gras was no longer consulted. He never did come up with a diagnosis of my blockage. The continued use of prednisone was recommended in an attempt to control my sed rate. Every specialist we visited was alarmed over the dosage of prednisone prescribed. My health continued to decline. X-rays and cat-scans were commonplace. Specialists detected an aneurysm on my brain and prostrate problems, but no positive diagnosis of why I continued to be tired and increasingly so. One day in a telephone conversation with brother Jay, he asked if I had ever had a cat-scan of the abdomen. I had not. He suggested I ask my doctor for such a scan. After mentioning it to Dr. Oostendorp, he scheduled such a scan. It was then that abscesses were found in the pancreas and abdomen. About the same time, I was admitted to the hospital for prostate problems. Surgery was recommended as well as surgery to determine the spread of abscesses and degree of penetration. By now my energy was almost gone, and my weight had fallen to 122 lbs. A dual operation was scheduled for Feb. 27, 1991.
The following eight weeks were spent in the Zeeland Hospital recovering from the operations. This was a period of strange physical and emotional experiences. There was an awareness of tubes in and out of my body, monitoring machines, antibiotic and food containers hanging on poles beside my bed. At the same time there was a strange feeling of peace and unconcern in spite of the almost constant attention given me. There was a feeling of detachment from all that was happening. There were periods of hallucinations when I seemed to be in another world. The hospital room took on different forms. Except for a short time in intensive care, I remained in the same room, but sometimes it seemed I was in an office with long corridors with people rushing back and forth. At other times I seemed to be absent from all that was real, and saw only a misty cloudy environment through which I floated. Sometimes my room seemed to be in a factory and sometimes my room appeared to be in the basement adjoining the laundry room. Doctors came and went, but identifying them was impossible.
A strange reaction often occurred when people came to visit. After they had left, and after I realized someone had been in to see me, I couldn't recall who they were. One time I asked if Sadie had been to see me only to learn that she had been there with me all day. Another time I asked about Jeanette, only to learn that she had just left the room. There were periods of semi-consciousness and undoubtedly semi-conscious behavior. I have often wondered about actions and reactions at times such as that. It seemed that I was being moved frequently about the hospital, only to learn later that except for intensive care, I remained in the same room.
There were many wonderful nurses in the hospital. Some were especially kind, considerate, and concerned. The service was great and the attention received was wonderfully compassionate. Unfortunately the names of most of the nurses have been forgotten. One particularly sweet lady was a Mrs. Lankheet. She often came into my room not by assignment, but to just sit and talk. Her mother was the former Mae De Jonge, whom I knew from Ottawa Church days. Another especially kind and thoughtful girl was the head nurse. She was always trying to do something to keep me comfortable and happy. Two young girls who came early in the morning to weigh me were especially sweet and considerate. They were always cheerful and happy. Unfortunately, their identity remains unknown. Dr. Van Wylen and Dr. Oostendorp will never be forgotten. Having Dr. Van Wylen call was always a pleasure. He always showed a real concern and often told us he was praying for us. One time he took my hand and said, "Let's have a prayer together." That meant more to me than all the medications and procedures applied. Even after returning home, they volunteered to visit me at home. Dr. Van Wylen often called from the hospital or from his car telephone saying "Sadie, is it all right if I stop in? I am close by and will be there shortly." And he did. Dr. Oostendorp also called at the house on different occasions. That kind of attention is unheard of today. House calls are simply not made today.
At he end of eight weeks, I was recommended for release to return home because I was reportedly depressed. I did not realize this, but they must have observed something I did not feel. Going home should have been an experience of great excitement, but I hardly knew what was happening. I was brought into a place which seemed like a warehouse with boxes piled high against the walls and people coming and going continually. Slowly on the reality of being home in our den on a hospital bed began to emerge. A nurse in the morning, followed by a nurse's aide, and a nurse in the evening became part of our daily schedule. The burden of care and attention, however, fell on Sadie. I soon began to realize the tremendous responsibility she had been given. She had sheet after sheet of instructions for daily care, for the operation of equipment, and what to do when malfunctions occurred. She had no previous experience, and burdens were overwhelming. I remember conversations we had with doctors, nurses, and equipment suppliers. Everything was so confusing and complicated. I remember hearing her crying and crying in the bedroom. It really hurt to hear her cry, and I wished and wished there was something I could do. There was nothing to be done. I was totally dependent. I prayed and prayed that the Lord would take me. I should never have been sent home. I should have gone to a nursing home. Sadie learned later about the doctor's opinion that I would be back in the hospital within two weeks. The fact that I didn't return is a tribute to Sadie's determination to keep me home.
She was always busy taking care of me, not only during the day, but at night as well. In fact, some of the most trying experiences happened at night. She slept on a couch right next to my bed. She was awake with the slightest movement I made, and getting back to sleep was not easy for her. Many, many times things went wrong in the middle of the night. The feeling of helplessness often swept over her as she tried to get the feeding machine back in operation again. My ileostomy often caused problems, requiring a complete change of the bedding. The changing of the bedding doesn't sound too complicated, but try it once with someone in bed who is unable to move a muscle or assist in any way. Then too, she had to be careful how she moved me. With various tubes attached and monitoring machines, the job was very difficult. After removing all the dirty bedding and cleaning me off, she had to replace everything with clean bedding. All this had to be done while I lay helpless and unable to assist. Imagine going through all of this and then placing the dirty linen in the washing machine, washing it out, and then finally being able to lie down and try to sleep. Her sleep was always being interrupted. Some nights she hardly slept at all. Her days were filled from morning to night with preparations. She wasn't taking time to eat and when she did, what she ate didn't amount to anything. She was steadily wasting away. She had no appetite. Donated food, brought in by friends, mostly remained uneaten. I was very much concerned over her welfare.
Answering the telephone and entertaining visitors was time consuming. They were all well meaning, but some come at very inopportune times. Besides, these calls and visits required a lot of time giving complete and updated information. Sadie always sat in the room whenever someone came, because she was in a better position to provide the information and answer the questions which were asked. Now, don't get me wrong. These calls and visits were very much appreciated and demonstrated a love and concern on the part of many. Those who came unannounced generally created the biggest problem. Most people stayed only a short time, but some made a habit of staying too long.
Sadie continued to lose weight, and the frustrations became more and more evident. I tried to encourage her to accept help, but she wanted to do it all by herself. She became depressed more frequently and the weight of her load became too much for her. Physically , she was becoming worn out, and emotionally she was becoming drained. She was giving her total self for me, and my fear was that my recovery might not come soon enough to salvage something of her being. Looking back upon the episode, I have regrets that my prolonged illness resulted in having such a devastating effect on her life and condition. She would have had it no other way. She was determined to take care of me no matter what. This she did most efficiently. I couldn't have gotten better treatment anywhere. Her love and concern will never be forgotten. I owe my life to her. I will never be able to fully express my appreciation to her for all she has done, and the burden is still not fully lifted. My limitations continue to create more work and responsibility for her. Something which will continue to plague me is the fact that frustrations of the present are a result of the stresses and strains she experienced while caring for me. What she is today is but a part of her former self. And the part which no longer finds expression is due to the impositions placed upon her during my illness. She realizes that there are many things which bother her now which never before created a problem. There are many things which she formerly performed without prior consideration which now are major obstacles. She doesn't complain and is happy and contented with things as they are, but I see the evidences of change and frustration, and these evidences are disturbing to me. As evidence, and as an acknowledgment of her great performance, she was awarded an honorary nurse's certificate by the nurses who attended me at home. She surely was deserving of it. It was all in fun, but it was earned.
After about seven months in a hospital bed at home, we finally got rid of it. My recovery continued rather slowly. Small improvements appeared like big advances. But for Sadie, the scars remain. This is what bothers me most. She has gained back part of her lost weight, but the emotional damage continues. Little things that she always took in stride, are now major hurdles. Responsibilities which she normally gave little thought to now seem insurmountable. Details which she never gave a second thought to are now oppressive and depressing. She has a way of covering up some of the feelings and reactions, but underneath I know there is a burning antagonizing battle going on which is wearing her down. And of course, my recovery didn't spell the end of her responsibilities at all. I still couldn't do much to relieve her burdens. My failing eyesight required her to do all the driving, something she never appreciated doing. Adjustments had to be made and we made them. We don't go out much anymore, we don't do as much visiting and we stay close to home. With an iliostomy which requires frequent attention, it has been known to cause severe problems. Then too with my eyesight such as it is restricting an appreciation for environmental sights and scenes, going any distance is somewhat hazardous and sometimes unattractive. My only regret is that my restrictions also affect Sadie. I know there are times when she would like to get out if it were only possible for me to drive, but she never complains. She is always content to stay home.
Some people seem to have difficulty understanding our situation and continue to suggest that we should go here or there, or do this or that. When we turn down their suggestion, they sometimes appear amazed. This is our lot in life and we are determined to make the best of it. We thank God continually for the things we are still able to do together. We have gained a new appreciation for things like a pleasant place to live, a comfortable home, good appetite, plenty to eat, bodies which although restricted in some ways are still normal in many ways. We have been drawn closer together as husband and wife, and our love for each other has grown stronger and more meaningful. We have gained a new appreciation for the passage of time, and we have learned to trust God more. He still speaks to us in every circumstance, "Fear not, I will be with you always, even unto the end of time." This is our confidence and trust both now and for everyday He gives us to live. These words of the old hymn come to mind, "When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll," through calm and storm our anchor still holds and we have the solid confident assurance that "it is well, it is well with my soul."
STREAMS OF WATER
A well traveled saucer-shaped path led from our house on the farm to the area around the barn. In the Wintertime, falling snow became packed along this path as we went back and forth between house and barn. We never bothered to shovel a path. We simply walked over each new accumulation of newly fallen snow. Eventually, the path became somewhat elevated. Then toward the Spring of the year, when temperatures warmed up, the snow began to melt and little rivulets of water began forming and running down the path from the house toward the barn where they emptied into a large puddle. Sometimes those streams were visible as they threaded their way through the packed snow, only to reappear farther down the path. The thing that intrigued me was the pattern of the flow. The streams might go straight for a short distance, and then turn sharply to the right or left for a short distance, but always continuing on its downhill course down the pathway. On investigating why the streams changed their course, it was found that maybe a piece of tree branch, a large rock, or maybe an especially hard piece of ice had blocked the straight forward flow of the stream. Back and forth the little streams meandered until they became free of all obstructions.
The creek, Pigeon River, which flowed along a road bordering our farm, was another example on a larger scale of the winding ways of flowing waters. There were the shallow wide areas where the water flowed slowly. This is the area where we liked to walk barefooted. The water could be lukewarm in the Summer, but it always provided refreshment. In the same general area we built our dam. In the Summertime, the water level could be only a few inches deep. This was not adequate for swimming, so something had to be done. After much hard work and determination, the dam was completed and the waters ahead of the dam began to rise. Before long we were able to swim around in the water two to three feed deep. This provided much fun and enjoyment. On a hot summer day we would come to the dam for refreshment. We would take off all our clothes, lay them on the bank of the creek, and jump in. In mid-summer the water was always warm. No cars ever traveled the road adjoining the creek, but we had two other concerns. One was blood suckers. After every swim, we took turns checking each other and pulling off any suckers which had attached themselves to us. The other concern was for some neighbor girls who liked to sneak up and peak over the bank to catch a view of us. One time we heard them giggle. We suddenly dashed out of the water, ran up the bank and after them for a short distance. They ran like scared rabbits, screaming all the way, never looking back until they had nearly reached their home about a half mile away.
A little beyond our dam was a bend in the creek. Here the flow of water turned off to the right. It flowed in that direction for a short distance and then made a sharp turn to the left. Back and forth the stream flowed, creating bend after bend, but always continuing on its course which eventually drained into the lake.
It was easy to determine why the stream made those bends. At each bend, high trees or large tree trucks blocked the passage, necessitating the change in direction. At each bend in the creek, an interesting thing occurred. In the Spring when the creek would sometimes overflow its banks, the water flowed quite rapidly. The rush of the water wore into the creek banks and created deep holes as the sandy bottom was washed away with the rushing waters. As the waters receded and returned to their normal levels, these deep, dark holes remained as a reservoir to whatever aquatic life existed. These were the places we came to fish. On a beautiful Summer day, we would dig a few angle worms, take our fishing poles made from tree branches, tied a string to the end of the pole, added a washer or a nut as a sinker, a bottle cork as a dobber, and a real fish hook to the end, and off we would go to the old fishing holes. Many peaceful relaxing moments were spent there watching the dobber for some sign of activity. Our concern was not over the number of fish caught. We were having a good time and felt better for having given it a try. This represents the natural account of the significance of "streams of water."
With the passing of time has come a far deeper realization of the significance of certain analogies to everyday life. Of particular meaning is the application to our own lives as we have witnessed and experienced certain events.
Our satisfaction with life moves on to greater heights as we move on to the deeper waters resulting from our achievements. We swim and splash in the waters behind the dam. We experience real satisfaction in work accomplished. We feel invigorated to tackle new responsibilities. We feel confident with ourselves. The pleasures of life are invigorating. The environment is beautiful, the waters are refreshing, the sandy bottom is soothing to our feet. We experience the joy of daily life. Blessings are beyond number. The challenges of life are refreshing, rewarding, and exciting. Our feet are steady, our footing is sure, and our walk in uninhibited. We greet with renewed enthusiasm and with a determination which solves most matters of concern quite readily. Here again, it is easy for us to profess that "God is good." After all, everything is going our way. What more could we ask for?
Then an obstacle appears. Misfortune crosses our path. The course of our lives takes a turn, a bend appears. Our health fails, a loved on is taken from us, employment is no longer a certainty. Adjustments have to be made. A period of calm may follow, but shortly another obstacle appears and another bend results. The flow of water may have been stopped for a time, but as adjustments were made, the stream continues its flow. Life goes on. Evidences of turmoil are present. Scars remain. Memories of a bitter experience are vivid. Times of depression, aloneness, pain, sorrow, discouragement, questionings, and despair cloud our minds. When the storm clouds gather and the waters become deeper and deeper, can we still say, "God is good?" Or "when out of the depths we cry" or when prayers go unanswered, or even worse, when we are no longer able to pray, has God "hid His face" from us? Do "His eyes no longer search the whole earth seeking whom He may strengthen?" Has He withdrawn His hand and is His arm no longer extended in support of us? Does God really have a plan and purpose for us? These are the questionings which arose.
Then came these words of comfort and assurance from the depths of our experiences. "When you pass through the waters I will be with you, and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you" (Isaiah 43:2) The waters are real, the depths are evident, the storms are sure to come, but we rest in His promise that they will not sweep over us. Bends bear witness to the fact that at some point in time the course of the flow of water required that changes and adjustments had to be made. The benefits of these bends and deep holes are found beneath the surface. As we sit on the bank with fish pole in hand and drop our line into the water, we then discover the treasures hidden below the surface.
This has been our experience. Our minds often go back to those difficult experiences and find refreshment and renewed hope as we drop our line into the Word of God and experience again and again the beautiful catch of promises we treasured in those days of deep emotion.
The flood waters have receded, the stream is back to normal, but the current now carries with it debris dislodged when the waters were high. The traumatic experiences we encountered are passed. Life has returned to a degree of normalcy, but we carry with us the effects of the struggle. The scars remain, scars of mental fatigue, emotional stress, and physical weariness, but the deepest impression of God's abiding love and faithfulness still inspire and renew our strength. Recalling the peace, comfort, assurance, and blessedness we knew when life was at its darkest, still inspire and encourage us.. Life goes on, but at a slower pace. Limitations are more pronounced and continue to spread. Our confidence and hope are in Him who said, "Fear not, I will never leave you or forsake you."
"When through the deep waters I cause you to go,
The rivers of sorrow will not overflow.
For I will be with you, your trials to bless,
And sanctify to you their deepest distress."
A well traveled saucer-shaped path led from our house on the farm to the area around the barn. In the Wintertime, falling snow became packed along this path as we went back and forth between house and barn. We never bothered to shovel a path. We simply walked over each new accumulation of newly fallen snow. Eventually, the path became somewhat elevated. Then toward the Spring of the year, when temperatures warmed up, the snow began to melt and little rivulets of water began forming and running down the path from the house toward the barn where they emptied into a large puddle. Sometimes those streams were visible as they threaded their way through the packed snow, only to reappear farther down the path. The thing that intrigued me was the pattern of the flow. The streams might go straight for a short distance, and then turn sharply to the right or left for a short distance, but always continuing on its downhill course down the pathway. On investigating why the streams changed their course, it was found that maybe a piece of tree branch, a large rock, or maybe an especially hard piece of ice had blocked the straight forward flow of the stream. Back and forth the little streams meandered until they became free of all obstructions.
The creek, Pigeon River, which flowed along a road bordering our farm, was another example on a larger scale of the winding ways of flowing waters. There were the shallow wide areas where the water flowed slowly. This is the area where we liked to walk barefooted. The water could be lukewarm in the Summer, but it always provided refreshment. In the same general area we built our dam. In the Summertime, the water level could be only a few inches deep. This was not adequate for swimming, so something had to be done. After much hard work and determination, the dam was completed and the waters ahead of the dam began to rise. Before long we were able to swim around in the water two to three feed deep. This provided much fun and enjoyment. On a hot summer day we would come to the dam for refreshment. We would take off all our clothes, lay them on the bank of the creek, and jump in. In mid-summer the water was always warm. No cars ever traveled the road adjoining the creek, but we had two other concerns. One was blood suckers. After every swim, we took turns checking each other and pulling off any suckers which had attached themselves to us. The other concern was for some neighbor girls who liked to sneak up and peak over the bank to catch a view of us. One time we heard them giggle. We suddenly dashed out of the water, ran up the bank and after them for a short distance. They ran like scared rabbits, screaming all the way, never looking back until they had nearly reached their home about a half mile away.
A little beyond our dam was a bend in the creek. Here the flow of water turned off to the right. It flowed in that direction for a short distance and then made a sharp turn to the left. Back and forth the stream flowed, creating bend after bend, but always continuing on its course which eventually drained into the lake.
It was easy to determine why the stream made those bends. At each bend, high trees or large tree trucks blocked the passage, necessitating the change in direction. At each bend in the creek, an interesting thing occurred. In the Spring when the creek would sometimes overflow its banks, the water flowed quite rapidly. The rush of the water wore into the creek banks and created deep holes as the sandy bottom was washed away with the rushing waters. As the waters receded and returned to their normal levels, these deep, dark holes remained as a reservoir to whatever aquatic life existed. These were the places we came to fish. On a beautiful Summer day, we would dig a few angle worms, take our fishing poles made from tree branches, tied a string to the end of the pole, added a washer or a nut as a sinker, a bottle cork as a dobber, and a real fish hook to the end, and off we would go to the old fishing holes. Many peaceful relaxing moments were spent there watching the dobber for some sign of activity. Our concern was not over the number of fish caught. We were having a good time and felt better for having given it a try. This represents the natural account of the significance of "streams of water."
With the passing of time has come a far deeper realization of the significance of certain analogies to everyday life. Of particular meaning is the application to our own lives as we have witnessed and experienced certain events.
Our satisfaction with life moves on to greater heights as we move on to the deeper waters resulting from our achievements. We swim and splash in the waters behind the dam. We experience real satisfaction in work accomplished. We feel invigorated to tackle new responsibilities. We feel confident with ourselves. The pleasures of life are invigorating. The environment is beautiful, the waters are refreshing, the sandy bottom is soothing to our feet. We experience the joy of daily life. Blessings are beyond number. The challenges of life are refreshing, rewarding, and exciting. Our feet are steady, our footing is sure, and our walk in uninhibited. We greet with renewed enthusiasm and with a determination which solves most matters of concern quite readily. Here again, it is easy for us to profess that "God is good." After all, everything is going our way. What more could we ask for?
Then an obstacle appears. Misfortune crosses our path. The course of our lives takes a turn, a bend appears. Our health fails, a loved on is taken from us, employment is no longer a certainty. Adjustments have to be made. A period of calm may follow, but shortly another obstacle appears and another bend results. The flow of water may have been stopped for a time, but as adjustments were made, the stream continues its flow. Life goes on. Evidences of turmoil are present. Scars remain. Memories of a bitter experience are vivid. Times of depression, aloneness, pain, sorrow, discouragement, questionings, and despair cloud our minds. When the storm clouds gather and the waters become deeper and deeper, can we still say, "God is good?" Or "when out of the depths we cry" or when prayers go unanswered, or even worse, when we are no longer able to pray, has God "hid His face" from us? Do "His eyes no longer search the whole earth seeking whom He may strengthen?" Has He withdrawn His hand and is His arm no longer extended in support of us? Does God really have a plan and purpose for us? These are the questionings which arose.
Then came these words of comfort and assurance from the depths of our experiences. "When you pass through the waters I will be with you, and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you" (Isaiah 43:2) The waters are real, the depths are evident, the storms are sure to come, but we rest in His promise that they will not sweep over us. Bends bear witness to the fact that at some point in time the course of the flow of water required that changes and adjustments had to be made. The benefits of these bends and deep holes are found beneath the surface. As we sit on the bank with fish pole in hand and drop our line into the water, we then discover the treasures hidden below the surface.
This has been our experience. Our minds often go back to those difficult experiences and find refreshment and renewed hope as we drop our line into the Word of God and experience again and again the beautiful catch of promises we treasured in those days of deep emotion.
The flood waters have receded, the stream is back to normal, but the current now carries with it debris dislodged when the waters were high. The traumatic experiences we encountered are passed. Life has returned to a degree of normalcy, but we carry with us the effects of the struggle. The scars remain, scars of mental fatigue, emotional stress, and physical weariness, but the deepest impression of God's abiding love and faithfulness still inspire and renew our strength. Recalling the peace, comfort, assurance, and blessedness we knew when life was at its darkest, still inspire and encourage us.. Life goes on, but at a slower pace. Limitations are more pronounced and continue to spread. Our confidence and hope are in Him who said, "Fear not, I will never leave you or forsake you."
"When through the deep waters I cause you to go,
The rivers of sorrow will not overflow.
For I will be with you, your trials to bless,
And sanctify to you their deepest distress."
GOD'S GOODNESS AND FAITHFULNESS
The most profound and lasting impression experienced was and is the goodness and faithfulness of our God. "Fear not, be not afraid." These simple, beautiful, comforting words are recorded for us in many places in God's most Holy Word. They were addressed to persons and peoples going through a variety of experiences. They are the soothing, refreshing words of our faithful compassionate and loving God intended to strengthen the weary, comfort the sorrowing, encourage the depressed, and give hope to the oppressed. Conditions today do not vary greatly from those at the time these words were spoken. They are as fresh and as meaningful today. Our all-knowing, all-powerful, all-sufficient God is just as willing and able to care for His people today as He was then. Sometimes winds and the waves of our troubled lives tend to drown out those encouraging words. Sometimes the concerns, the worries, pains, sufferings, sorrows, uncertainties, and struggles of the present and fear of the future almost make inaudible the still small voice which still speaks to us. "Fear not, be not afraid." God remains faithful.
Do we have questionings? We certainly do. One of the most repeated questions is, "Why?" A little child may ask that question a hundred times a day. Sometimes we are able to give an explanation which will satisfy the child, but if not, the question comes back. "Why?" We often respond, "That is the way it is. We don't know why, but we have learned from experience that that's the way it is." We expect our children to accept the best explanation we can give and then believe what they do not understand, because Mom or Dad said so. There are no ready answer to many of our "why's." The heart rending sorrows of a father of a large family which is suddenly deprived of the loving care and attention of a mother. "Why?" A young father or mother is paralyzed from the neck down following a collision with a drunk driver. "Why?" Countless elderly people no longer able to move about or help themselves, unable to communicate, and unaware of anything happening around them. Why do they continue to live while those in their prime are taken? "Why?" We don't know and will never know until that day when all will be made plain to us and we shall know even as we are known. It's easy to say that God has a plan for us - and He does, but still, "Why me, Lord?" "God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" God was silent, but in His silence He reaffirmed what He had said earlier, "This is my son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased." Jesus knew the plan of God which meant that because He was rejected, suffered and died, we will never be rejected by God. God has a plan for our lives. We may not full understand the unfolding of the plan , but He knows the way.
THE WEAVER
________________________________
Written by B.M. Franklin (1882-1965)
My life is just a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaves so skillfully.
Sometimes He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not ‘til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And explain the reasons why-
The dark threads are as needful,
In The Weaver’s skillful hands
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
The most profound and lasting impression experienced was and is the goodness and faithfulness of our God. "Fear not, be not afraid." These simple, beautiful, comforting words are recorded for us in many places in God's most Holy Word. They were addressed to persons and peoples going through a variety of experiences. They are the soothing, refreshing words of our faithful compassionate and loving God intended to strengthen the weary, comfort the sorrowing, encourage the depressed, and give hope to the oppressed. Conditions today do not vary greatly from those at the time these words were spoken. They are as fresh and as meaningful today. Our all-knowing, all-powerful, all-sufficient God is just as willing and able to care for His people today as He was then. Sometimes winds and the waves of our troubled lives tend to drown out those encouraging words. Sometimes the concerns, the worries, pains, sufferings, sorrows, uncertainties, and struggles of the present and fear of the future almost make inaudible the still small voice which still speaks to us. "Fear not, be not afraid." God remains faithful.
Do we have questionings? We certainly do. One of the most repeated questions is, "Why?" A little child may ask that question a hundred times a day. Sometimes we are able to give an explanation which will satisfy the child, but if not, the question comes back. "Why?" We often respond, "That is the way it is. We don't know why, but we have learned from experience that that's the way it is." We expect our children to accept the best explanation we can give and then believe what they do not understand, because Mom or Dad said so. There are no ready answer to many of our "why's." The heart rending sorrows of a father of a large family which is suddenly deprived of the loving care and attention of a mother. "Why?" A young father or mother is paralyzed from the neck down following a collision with a drunk driver. "Why?" Countless elderly people no longer able to move about or help themselves, unable to communicate, and unaware of anything happening around them. Why do they continue to live while those in their prime are taken? "Why?" We don't know and will never know until that day when all will be made plain to us and we shall know even as we are known. It's easy to say that God has a plan for us - and He does, but still, "Why me, Lord?" "God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" God was silent, but in His silence He reaffirmed what He had said earlier, "This is my son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased." Jesus knew the plan of God which meant that because He was rejected, suffered and died, we will never be rejected by God. God has a plan for our lives. We may not full understand the unfolding of the plan , but He knows the way.
THE WEAVER
________________________________
Written by B.M. Franklin (1882-1965)
My life is just a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaves so skillfully.
Sometimes He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not ‘til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And explain the reasons why-
The dark threads are as needful,
In The Weaver’s skillful hands
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.