I remember one Fourth of July when I sat on the curb of a busy street in Norfolk, Nebraska. The grown ups were sitting in lawn chairs beneath the elm trees behind me. The women had dug into their purses to find anything that might suffice as a fan. The men were discussing that 107 degrees might just be the hottest 4th of July yet. Many of the folks were grumbling; wondering why they had left their comfortable homes to sit out in the beastly heat with not a cloud in the sky. But, it wasn’t long before band music could be heard down the street and people became less focused on the heat. Horses with bright red, white, and blue neck banners paraded in front of us. One of the more mellow horses led the pack as the Stars and Stripes waved gently above his head. Not one person on the sidelines would have considered not standing with their hand over their heart. I watched my great grandparents and others equally as feeble, struggle to right themselves upward from the flimsy chairs – but right themselves they did. It was a secure and satisfying feeling to look up and down the street and to feel the unity portrayed.

This July 4th marks the 241st anniversary of Independence Day.  In 1776  the thirteen colonies declared themselves in writing –  a new nation and no longer under British authority.

If you are the type of person that enjoys a bit of trivia you might be aware that the legal separation of the Thirteen Colonies from Great Britain did not happen on July 4th, but on July 2nd, when the Second Continental Congress voted to approve a resolution of independence. After the decision was make, a statement explaining the decision needed to be written. “The Declaration of Independence” was prepared by a committee of five –  largely written by Thomas Jefferson. After some debate about wording and then some revision, Congress approved the document on July 4th. (As a side note, I can’t help marveling at how fast Congress acted in 1776  – in 2 days  they had something major agreed upon and accomplished!)

You may wonder why Americans celebrate with the types of festivities we do on the 4th of July. Why is it that this day is celebrated with parades, baseball games, bonfires, picnics, and fireworks? We can attribute these merry making activities to John Adams – one of the fifty-six signers of the Declaration of Independence. The night before he signed his name he wrote a letter to his wife, Abigail: This will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

More than likely, anyone reading this blog has participated in a 4th of July celebration of those kind mentioned. However, there may be some you and I have not participated in. I have not  attended a mock funeral for King George III as some colonists did to symbolize the end of the monarchy’s hold on America and the triumph of liberty. Or how about sitting around a bonfire consisting of towering barrels forty tiers high? These kind of pyramids were common in the 19th and 20th century as New England towns competed to build the tallest one. The highest “barrel pyramid” is recorded to have been built on Gallows Hill in Salem Massachusetts – the famous site of the execution of thirteen women and six men for witchcraft in 1692.

Another thing some trivia enthusiasts might already know in relation to the Fourth of July, is that three of our presidents have died on this memorable date. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, both of whom signed the Declaration of Independence, died within hours of each other on July 4th, 1826. James Monroe followed suit in 1831.

Whether we celebrate this upcoming holiday by cheering on the sidelines of a parade, watching the night sky light up with brilliant fireworks, or hosting a simple barbecue in our backyard, let us remember the day of deliverance John Adams spoke about and give thanks for our independence and the freedoms we enjoy.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Many of us paid tribute to the fallen soldiers of various battles this past weekend as we celebrated Memorial Day. My husband and I found ourselves on a beautiful green hilltop with pine trees encircling the edges. Old Glory waved easily from a pole set in the center of the peaceful resting place. White rectangular headstones placed several feet apart, along with a few private monuments roll in short ribbons across two acres comprising Fort Meade National Cemetery. At the conclusion of the program, we were all invited to sing together, “The Star Spangled Banner” as we stood in the shadow of the flag. How fitting this was, as we had just learned that the song had it’s roots of becoming the national anthem, right here at the Fort Meade military post. The cemetery overlooks a well kept campus of two story old stone buildings build around a grassy square. The fort was established in 1878 to protect the new settlements in the northern Black Hills. Shortly after the fort was established so was the cemetery.

Fort Meade boasts of two claims to fame. As mentioned, it is here where “The Star Spangled Banner” rose to stardom.  Although Francis Scott Key penned the song in 1814, it was Col. Caleb Carton, commanding officer at Fort Meade, that began to require it to be played at the close of all concerts and parades and at the fort’s retreat time. He was eventually successful in persuading the Washington establishment to order it played at all forts, and in 1914 President Wilson signed an executive order making the song the national anthem.

The second claim to fame is a story of a horse – the most famous horse in western history. He resided at Fort Meade from 1879 – 1888.  Comanche is one of only two horses in United States history that has received full military honors at death. This bay colored horse known for his bravery rode into battle under the command of General George Custer on June 25, 1876 at Montana’s Little Bighorn. He is sometimes thought to have been General Custer’s own horse, but this is not so. His owner and rider that day was Captain Myles Keogh – a man that treated his horse well and who had bought him from the army for $90.00.

When the Battle of the Little Bighorn was over and army soldiers sprawled dead across the greasy grass, few horses remained. Those that the Indians felt were still useful animals were taken back to camp. They had no use for the badly  injured Comanche and when troops arrived to take care of the dead, the brave and loyal horse was found standing over the body of Captain Keogh and others nearby.

This wasn’t the first time Comanche had been injured in battle, suffering wounds from both bullets and arrows.  Respect for this brave horse increased with each of the four serious injuries he sustained – always ending the battle before being treated and always willing to return to battle once he was healed.

Following the Battle of the Bighorn, Comanche received the honorary title of Second Commanding Officer and was retired from further service. It was ordered that no one would ride him again. He led occasional official parades with his head held high, as it should be. He was allowed the run of the grounds at Fort Meade and became a “pet” of most everyone stationed there. It is said in more than one reference, because of all the toasts made in honor of his heroism, he became quite a fan of beer.

Comanche died from colic in November of 1891 at the age of 29 years. He spent his last few years at Fort Riley, Kansas. At death, he was mounted by the well-known Kansas taxidermist, Lewis Dyche, and continues to reside in the National History Museum at the University of Kansas in Lawrence, Kansas.

Let us allow Comanche to be an inspiration to all of us during difficult times. Not only did he rise from a wild mustang on the prairies of Texas to a decorated soldier, but he lived out the familiar phrase, “Keep on, keeping on.”

We seldom stop to consider the sacrifices animals have given for our country, but Comanche is one beast that caught the attention of  song writer and singer, Johnny Horton. Even though the lyrics aren’t totally accurate the message is clear.

“Comanche (The Brave Horse)”

The battle was over at Custer’s last stand
And taps were sounding for all the brave men
While one lone survivor wounded and weak
Comanche the Brave Horse lay at the General’s feet.

Comanche you fought hard, Comanche you tried
You were a good soldier so hold your head up high
For even the greatest sometimes must fall
Comanche the Brave Horse you gave your all.

My best friend in my early grade school years had the cutest dimples on each cheek. As far as I can remember (that was 55 years ago) Jackee was the only one in our class of  20 kids that had these special features. I was so envious. I thought,  if I could just have dimples like that, I would be as cute as Jackee. Sometimes I would try pushing dimples into my cheeks with my thumbs, but I had the most stubborn cheeks!

Years past and it was in High School Biology class that Mr. Schuler talked about this very thing. My ears perked up and I thought this might be my chance to finally get dimples. What I heard was disappointing. I was never going to have dimples! He explained that these kinds of characteristics are autosomal genetic traits, meaning that it’s up to our genes that hang on to our chromosomes that determine whether we get a trait or not.  Mr. Schuler had been my favorite teacher before this. The only thing he said that made me feel any better was that  dimples are created by a mutant gene. I felt a little smug then, knowing my genes weren’t mutant.

These autosomal traits are considered either dominant or recessive. Dominant traits can be passed down from only one parent, where as recessive traits have to be passed down from both parents. Dimples are a dominant trait, meaning Jackee could have gotten them from her mother or her father. However, interestingly the dimpled chin (sometimes known as cleft chin or butt chin) is a recessive trait so both parents have to be involved to pass this on to their offspring. This would mean that Kirk Douglas’s well known dimpled chin could not be blamed on one parent or the other – they both contributed. I don’t think Kirk Douglas minded what was passed along.  It has been said that the costume designers on the set of his films picked out certain ties to emphasize his cleft chin, because he was proud of it.  Those of you that can’t remember back to the Kirk Douglas era, you may notice the cleft chin when watching Kirk’s son, Michael,  Ben Affleck, Sandra Bullock, John Travolta, or Dr. Phil.

A few other autosomal dominant traits that can intrigue us are widow’s peaks such as Paul Ryan has causing his hair line to dip in a “V” on his forehead, freckles, long eyelash length, and almond shaped eyes.  And if you are so talented as to be able to roll your tongue upward on each side, this is not a talent at all, but a dominant autosomal trait.  Any traits opposite of those mentioned would be recessive traits and would need to be contributed by both parents such as a straight hairline, no freckles, short eye lashes, and round eyes.

A very interesting syndrome known as the ACHOO syndrome, short for autosomal dominant compelling helioopthalmic outburst syndrome is now believed by some to be an autosomal dominant trait. It is characterized by uncontrollable sneezing in response to the sudden exposure of bright light following a darkened environment such as when coming out of a theater or passing through a long tunnel. Most people with the syndrome sneeze 2- 3 times, but there are those that can sneeze up to forty times. This is not a new phenomenon as Aristotle studied it as far back as 300 BC.

Forty five years ago (thanks to Mr. Schuler) I resigned myself to the fate of being flat cheeked. However, today, due to modern plastic surgery, dimples are within reach. It’s been something to think about, but I’ve come to the conclusion that dimples at 62 aren’t as important as they were at 10.  Instead of using my time to nurse sore cheeks, I think I’ll go down to the theatre on a bright sunny day. I’ll park where I can observe those coming out of the side door of the matinee and do some research of my own. It makes me sneeze just thinking about it.

Until next month – if you’ll keep on readin’, I’ll keep on writin’.

It’s not been that long ago that I visited an old farmhouse where a good friend lived. She had painted the two story house a barn-red color and trimmed the long narrow windows in white. The house sits between huge swaying cottonwood trees – trees that are likely as old as the wooden structure they frame. On the drive to this house  you must cross a bridge that spans a quiet stream of water, then turn down a winding lane. It’s a quiet isolated piece of property; unable to be seen from the main road. My friend loved this old house where she and her husband raised their five children – where the walls ricocheted  laughter, love, and occasional tears. It’s just an old farmhouse with some character, but oh…how it bursts with memories.

I spent the first eleven years of my life on a farm in northeast Nebraska. It too had a creek, a lane, and an old house with character. It now resides in a deep corner of my mind and houses the memories that were made there.

Like my friend’s home, this was a two story house with narrow windows – and plenty of them.  The cold drafts that whistled around the edges in January and February have stamped this memory into that deep corner of my mind.  Each window was divided into four panes by narrow strips of wood – originally painted white – but now were rough and gray with only a few thin strips of  loose white paint – often picked off and dropped behind the couch when Mom and Dad weren’t looking.

Two large bedrooms and one storage area made up the top floor of the old farmhouse. My brother and I were given the largest room which we divided by an imaginary line into his side and my side. Woe to anyone that crossed the line! Three or four heavy comforters provided the only heat upstairs, except for a very small amount of heat that escaped upward from the stoves downstairs. My collection of unforgettable memories reminds me how I would snuggle down deep into the soft bed with only my mouth and nose visible. It was great fun to blow my visible breath out into the frigid  room. To this day I prefer a cold bedroom with ample covers. My brother and I shared this bedroom with one small turtle that took up housekeeping in a shallow aquarium that sat atop my brother’s dresser. Dave remembers the morning he awoke to find the turtle frozen in place with his small snout  barely poking above the ice. As the day warmed up, so did the turtle; no worse for wear.

The old farmhouse had a built in alarm system; every bit as good as the high tech camera surveillances we have today. The creaky old staircase would have alerted us of any burglars in an instant. (Can you call them burglars if you never locked your doors?)  I became highly skilled at determining the family members ascending the stairs as I laid in my bed and listened. Dad’s heavy footsteps created a thud amongst the creaks while Mom’s steps generated a light patter. Dave had a hurried gait, sometimes taking two steps at a time, and my three year old sister possessed a slow, cautious step as she heaved herself up from one step to the next.

The living room became the hub of the home, especially through the winter months. An  oil stove kept the room comfortably warm. By opening up one of the two doors on the front of the stove, it was easy enough to assend to my favorite perch. Many cold evenings found Dave and I warming our bottom sides on the top of the stove.  The only TV in the house – a black and white Zenith – sat near one wall of this room.  A well used, but comfortable couch sat on another wall and a soft chair or two rounded out the furniture. Often the card table was set up near the stove where a Monopoly game or Uncle Wiggily took residence.

New houses have charm, but old houses have character and memories. This is why my friend posted the “For Sale” sign at her current residence. She hopes to move back to the old barn-red house she loves.

Until next month… keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

I’ve had several heroes in my life. Let me tell you about a few of them.

There is Joseph – the one thrown in the pit by his brothers. He was a well dressed hero in that fancy coat of many colors that Dolly Parton sings about. Only problem was it caused a Grand Canyon full of resentment in his brothers’ hearts and landed him in a deep dark hole, which eventually led him to a strange land and Pharaoh’s home.  Joseph didn’t do everything right – but one thing he did do right, was flee the advances of Pharaoh’s wife. Unfortunately, Pharaoh believed his deceiving wife and Joseph was thrown into another dark hole – this time the prison dungeon. Long story short – he eventually got out of prison, was made overseer of all the land, and even saved his undeserving brothers from starvation. The thing that makes Joseph a hero in my book is not that he became Pharoah’s right hand man or even that he forgave his brothers for the wrong they did to him. The reason he is a hero to me is that through the valleys of life – whether in a pit, prison for being falsely accused, or isolated from the ones he loved (his father and youngest brother) he continued to trust God. When the world’s crashing down on you, that’s not so easy.  This hero inspires me to try my best at doing the same.

I had a hero when I was in grade school – even got my picture on the front page of the Omaha World Herald with him when I was six. His name was Barney. He was a true friend and every  afternoon when running down the lane after getting off the school bus, he was waiting for me. He was the best listener! He would stand quietly by as I cried out my woes about getting picked last for the kickball team or getting less than a B on my arithmetic test. He wore a suit of soft brown hair and he had the biggest and warmest brown eyes in all of Pierce County. He was the most patient plow horse anywhere – always content to wait for his ear of corn until I had unloaded the wagon of woes on him. He was an unforgettable hero as proven by the fact that I am writing about him today.

There’s another hero in this story. The one that heard the wails of a little girl when she found out that her Barney was of no use in the fields anymore and would be going to the “glue factory.”  Instead, Barney lived out his life in the green meadows of our farm.  This same hero not only saved Barney but he saved a frog from the shaft of a windmill and a toad from the mouth of a snake  – all because he was willing to do something that was important to those he loved. This hero knew my heart. When it was time that I could be in 4-H, he came home with two Brown Swiss calves in the backseat of the car – calves that would stay with us, grow up to be fine milk cows, and never have to be sold; which in the process would have broken my tender  heart.  Dad didn’t often tell us he loved us, but we knew.

Max Lucado puts it nicely when he says, “Something tells me that for every hero in the spotlight, there are dozens in the shadows. They don’t get press, they don’t draw crowds. But behind every avalanche is a snowflake and behind every rock slide is a pebble.

These are just a few of my heroes. Who are your heroes?

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.