Wherever the heart is…

The Saline Creek, along Boyd Road

Because of hurricanes Helene and Milton this past fall, our family couldn’t go to Florida for vacation as planned in October. Fortunately, we have been able to visit Florida this month. The weather is beautiful and the setting is very relaxing, giving me some time to reflect on how we still managed to spend time together last fall – in a beautiful spot. At the time, we talked about other possible trips, but instead we went back to Coffman for a few days.

Picking up hedge apples (Osage oranges) for decorations is a favorite activity during
our fall trips to Coffman

We saw this beautiful creature along the Saline Creek a few years ago in the fall.

The scenery – and sunsets – are beautiful in Coffman.

My father and his ancestors were born and raised there and though we left there in 1943 and never went back until my own children were grown, it still pulls me back and old memories are revived. I feel that pull strongly even though all the near relatives are long gone, as well as my old schoolmates.

What has happened, however, is we’ve met many current residents during our visits and all are kind and hospitable, always saying, “Come again – you are always welcome!”

Typically, on our trips, we stay for a few days at a villa at Chaumette Winery, visit friends, and spend most of the day on or near the Saline Creek. That was the routine on two separate trips in October. On the first trip, daughter Jan picked up lunch for us at a favorite deli in Perryville, Missouri, then met us on the Saline at Johnny’s Bridge, named (in our family) for cousin Johnny Yallaly who was rescued from drowning in the creek there by his father when Johnny was about 3 years old. Johnny himself joined us on the creek that day and brought along our old friend, Pat Billington.

Enjoying lunch and a visit on the creek with childhood friend Pat Billington

Cousin Johnny tells me I’m his favorite cousin. I don’t mind that at all!

One day, daughter Carolyn came and again we went to the creek, walked the gravel bar, and checked on the eagle’s nest.

On another day, we visited Buck and Cathy who live at Aunt Maude’s old home, and we visited our friend, Mr. Wheetley, who has the beautiful garden on the road to Mayberry Cemetery.

This photo was taken last spring when we visited Mr. Wheetley (left) with Pat Billington.

Mr. Wheetley had some interesting spikes in his yard and he said they were cedar roots and we could have some extras he had, but they were back in the woods. Jan didn’t have room for them in her trunk, but we would come back for them another time. The following week, Jan talked her husband, Bob, into going to Coffman for the day, just to get the roots. Bob, city bred and mostly good natured, was at first not enthused about this particular adventure. But, I’ll let him share his side of the story.

From one adventure to another

Hi, I’m Bob, Bonnie’s “city bred and mostly good natured” son-in-law.

Please, let me give you a little background to my part of this story. I have been married to Bonnie’s daughter, Jan, for 45 blissful years-mostly. Even though I was city bred, I take pride in being mostly good natured when it comes to going on expeditions with my wonderful mother-in-law, and we’ve had many over the years.

I have always enjoyed going with her to visit her ancestral home in Coffman. We’ve driven all around the area and she has told us in vivid detail where she lived, pointing out who lived in this house or that, and where she played in the creeks and what fields she and Merlin would walk through to get to school.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed hearing all the stories of her youth from her remarkable memory.

On one of the many great adventures at her favorite creek spot, at her insistence, I walked with her for several hundred feet, (from a perfectly good, dry gravel bar) up a slippery rock-bottomed creek to sit under a nice shady tree in the middle of the creek…because that’s where she wanted to be.

The perfect place to sit and enjoy the creek

All I could think about was, how am I going to get my mother-in-law there and back to dry land without any broken bones! But we made it unscathed…thanks to my “mostly” good nature.

So, on this particular day, I was summoned to Coffman to meet her latest new friend, Mr. Wheetley. He has a beautiful garden in front of his home that Bonnie and the girls admire whenever they are in Coffman driving around and visiting her old haunts. One day they stopped when they saw him outside and told him how much they enjoyed seeing his garden and he invited them to stop and look around.

Well as you probably know by now, Bonnie knows no strangers and everyone she meets wants to be her friend. So, on this day, I introduced myself to Mr. Wheetley and found him to be a real country gentleman. Being a city boy, I am always fascinated with and admire farmers and country folk.

By now the garden was past its summer prime and ready for winter to come, but it was still a beautiful spot. He invited us to fetch some of the cedar tree roots that he offered to Bonnie to put in her garden back home. So off we went – with him and Bonnie in front of his four-wheel drive Kubota and Jan and I in the back flat bed – and headed out through his cow pasture. I was assigned to be the gate keeper to unchain and chain back up the gate, so the cows didn’t get out. (Unlike the city kids you’ll read about later, who Bonnie knew when she was young, this city boy didn’t let the cows get out!) It was quite an adventure to bounce around the back of that Kubota through the rough fields. Now, years ago when I was a young man and still very much a city boy, Jan and I visited friends who had a farm with cows. As we were walking around the pasture, I pointed out something I saw on the ground and said to Jan, “Oh look, it’s a hornet’s nest.” Our host stopped and looked at it and busted out laughing and said, “No, that is a dried cow pie!” Needless to say, 40 years later I remembered that and kept my mouth shut when we passed tons of “hornets nests” all over the ground!

After driving past all those land mines in the pasture, we finally arrived at the spot in the back of the pasture where there was a grove of cedar trees and a big mound of spiked and weathered cedar tree roots in a tangled pile on the ground.

Again, being city bred and mostly good natured, I waited for Bonnie to pick out the best-looking cedar root for me to untangle from the mess of branches before me. As usual with these adventures, I didn’t know what I was getting into and wished I had brought some gloves. These cedar tree roots were sharp and after many pokes and splinters, I managed to pull out the best root for her and then, of course, one for Jan too. We loaded up the roots in the back of the Kubota and bounced past the cows and back to the gate. By now I felt like I was an old ranch hand and jumped off the back of the Kubota, unchained the gate and waved them through and rechained the gate without letting out any of the cows. I have to say, I think Mr. Wheetley was impressed with how quickly this city boy turned into a cowboy!  (I didn’t tell him, but it probably helped that I learned a lot watching the Yellowstone series.)

Anyway, I loaded the tree roots in the back of my truck and brought them back to Bonnie’s house and put one in her garden, and I have to say, it looks really nice!

Now, Bonnie is 93 years old, and as I write this I am on Anna Maria Island, Florida, for another adventure with her, Jan, and sister-in-law Chris for two weeks. I always look forward to these trips with Bonnie regardless of her age. I don’t know the term for 90 somethings, but she defies all perceptions of someone her age. I’ve always said that I don’t know many men who look forward to going on vacation with their mothers-in-law, but I do, and I have been blessed to go with her every chance I get. It must be my good nature, mostly.

Memories from our storefront home

On the last day of our fall trip, daughter Laurie and I got up the nerve to knock on the door of the old store building where my family once lived. We had not contacted the current owners in advance and hesitated to intrude on their day. The owners welcomed us and kindly took us through the first floor which had served as both the store and post office. It looks much different now, with beautiful updates and renovations, but I still recognized the tin ceiling and the mural on the wall in the little brick building next door, which once served as a tavern.

Back home, thinking of those long-ago years, old memories flooded back. Both good and bad. Two baby sisters were born there, with Dr. Sexauer attending. Merlin contracted scarlet fever and later had to have his tonsils removed.

I remember too our African American neighbors who lived and worked among us. Segregation was prominent and black and white children went to separate schools, but my parents welcomed them in our home. Old Pap lived in a room connected to Aunt Maude’s home and was a tremendous help to her when she ran the store as her husband was in ill health. The current owners told me they feel a real connection with Old Pap and others who were part of the store years ago.

A woman known as Aunt Rose would help Mom on wash day and Mom always made me dry the lunch dishes while Aunt Rose washed them. Aunt Rose was very cross about the way I dried, as I was in a hurry to get back to school to play.

After Aunt Maude ran the store, it was run by her brother, Uncle Carol. Then my father took it over, including the post office services. In order to do so, he had to take a test in Jefferson City and our family went along, with his cousin, Adrian Boyd, helping with the drive. Merlin and I enjoyed visiting the capitol building. When we passed through Potosi, Merlin and I giggled at the name. And when we went through Old Mines, I had no idea I would some day marry a boy from there.

The mail would come from the post office in Ste. Genevieve, delivered by a woman mail carrier. Her route would end up at Jimmy Nations’ store and post office in nearby Clearwater. One day she invited me to ride along with her – probably against the rules, but I was delighted to go.

Magazines were rare then, but a neighbor got one, maybe Ladies Home Companion. I sneaked it out of the mail slot, thinking I would get it back befoe anyone came for their mail. A son came for it though and when Mom checked for the family’s mail, which she had sorted, she was furious with me.

I also remember how someone abandoned the cart of an old one-horse buggy near the store and somehow Merlin and his friend, Francie, roped the hitch up to guide it and got it to the top of the steep hill alongside the store. The road was seldom traveled, but still it was a dangerous ride. They enjoyed some good rides, but one day they lost control of it and it came jolting down the hill, past the store, over the hump where the old railroad tracks were, and into a pond. Francie, mad at Merlin for not guiding it, stomped off home and after that Dad confiscated the old cart, and that was the end of that.

I don’t remember having too many chores, but one time a farmer gave Mom some sheep’s wool from a shearing. Of course it was dirty so she washed it in an iron kettle in the yard and dried it in the sun. It was white and cream but still had tiny bits of leaves and twigs in it. Every night after supper, we had to “pull wool.” She kept the washed wool in pillow cases and we’d take a hand full and keep pulling it apart until all the bits of debris were gone, then we’d grab another hand full. Finally, when it was all pulled and clean she put it between yards of flannel, sewed and tacked it into soft warm covers that lasted for years.

Two treasured items – Mom and Dad’s cedar chest and one of the blankets made with
the pulled wool.

One summer day, Merlin, Francie, and I took Aunt Maude’s two grandkids, Joanie and Larry, for a long walk through the countryside. They were visiting her for a few days from St. Louis. We walked through woods to the old abandoned Carver farm, played in Carver Creek and walked back home through the fields. When we would come to a wooden farm gate, we would climb over, not bothering with the chain closure.

One day, a cranky old farmer came to the store and complained to Dad about kids leaving his farm gate open. We denied it and blamed it on Larry, a city kid who didn’t know gate etiquette. It was the middle of August and along about then Dad decided to send Merlin and me on our ferry ride and long six-mile walk to our Grandparents in Illinois for a two-week stay.

Dad could concentrate on a new year of teaching school. Mom could tend to a new baby, plus tend the store and sort the mail.

Strong men and strong women! May we know them!

This Year’s Garden

Although summer is officially over, I’m still able to spend time on the patio which looks about the same as last year – the old blue door is still standing…

…but the pink glider is gone. One of the runners was broken and it had long served its purpose, so in the spring it was hauled out to the curb where in a short time a junk dealer drove by and picked it up. I also left the old pink table in the basement and brought out a small round table instead.

Throughout the season, but especially in early spring and summer, the squirrels and chipmunks like the patio and dig in the pots. I cuss a bit and try to make the best of it. I replace the dug up plants with the chameleon plant and cypress vine that grow like weeds and are easy to root.

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The birds are good company, but the house wren that comes back each April around the same time as brother-in-law Geno’s birthday was a big disappointment. It inspected all five birdhouses in the lilac trees, then must have decided to nest elsewhere. My Dad would tell about the wren coming back each spring when they lived at the Pratt place on the Saline Creek. It always nested in an old pair of men’s high topped shoes that hung from a nail on the smoke house. If only the wrens around here would be so loyal.

Luckily, other visitors return more frequently, including great granddaughter, Olivia, who always enjoys cleaning out the birdbath.

The new flower bed I planted two years ago did very well, with coreopsis, daisies, snow on the on mountain, and the moon vine. I recently took up the decorative red plates I use to line the garden, washed them and packed them away for the winter. And soon, I’ll bring in the house plants I brought out to the patio for the season to fill in the window boxes. The peace lily, sent by the police department after Ted passed away, thrived there and sent up white shoots. At one of daughter Jan’s sales, a sad looking philodendron was on the porch and I decided to try to revive it. (She charged me $6 for it!) I recalled the one my sister-in-law, Verna, had in the Darst Webbe apartments. She didn’t have a lot of space, and her family grew quickly (triplets, 2 sets of twins, then 2 single births), so she didn’t have any extra time for taking care of houseplants. But her kitchen had large windows and she let her philodendron grow and grow, tacking it up along the walls above the windows – and it trailed across the kitchen.

My first crop of Early Girl tomato plants didn’t make it this year – I think it was the changing weather and maybe a family of rabbits, so I replanted. Soon after July 4, the tomatoes started turning red and kept producing till just last week.

In the years Cliff and I were first married, we lived in rented three-room flats and raised six kids. When we bought our first home, the yard had flower beds along the fence, but not much room for a vegetable garden. There was a small area of grass between the garage and fence and one of the older neighbors said at one time there was a chicken coop in that spot. The ground seemed rich enough and Cliff dug it up and put in tomato plants. Laurie, our youngest, was in the first grade, and she and Cliff were very proud of their first crop.

That memory always takes me back to my parents’ and grandparents’ garden when we lived in the country. Grandma Louveau had a huge fenced in garden in an area that faced the front yard. She planted sweet corn, tomatoes, onions, lettuce, radishes, potatoes – every vegetable needed for a meal. There was a storm cellar out in the yard where she stored the vegetables she canned. It was also a shelter when there was the threat of a tornado. One time as a child, a storm was coming, and I helped gather the baby chicks which roamed the yard, put them in a box and carried them to the kitchen to keep from drowning in the heavy rainstorm. Then, we all went into the storm cellar for safety. It was a dreary place!

Grandma didn’t have much time to care for a flower garden, but she kept a row of holly hocks on one side of the yard. I now have hollyhocks – some very pale pink and some brighter pink – at the edge of my tomato garden, and they make me think of her.

Not far from Grandma’s house and garden were the railroad tracks. Trains ran often, and when my brother and I would hear a train we would run out to the yard and wave. Usually a worker would be at the train window and he would wave back. When our grandson Robbie got a job for a railroad company, I asked if he waved back at the little kids when he was on the train. He said he never saw kids playing close to the tracks. I still love the sound of a train whistle.

During World War II, there was a saying, “Do something for the War Effort.” So, Uncle Elvin decided to plant more tomatoes – at the edge of the field next to Grandma’s garden. One hot summer day, my brother Merlin and I helped pick all the ripe ones. Before long, I had too much sun, felt ill, and wanted to go home to St. Louis. Uncle Elvin said he’d drive me to the bus stop the next day, but Dad came that evening to stay for the weekend, and I felt better when seeing him.

In the same field where Uncle Elvin planted the tomatoes, there was a pecan tree. Grandpa Louveau’s brother, Francois, and his wife, Laura (Grandma’s half sister), lived at the other edge of the field and the two families were supposed to share the pecan crop.

Grandma told about picking up pecans with her children one time and Francois came out with a shotgun pointed at her, demanding she stop picking. I don’t know how that all turned out, but in telling me the story years later, Grandma was still very mad. Francois and Laura both died in their 30s, leaving three little girls who went on to live with other relatives. They visited Grandma often, and she loved them, but she still held a grudge against their father!

About that slogan for the War Effort – the Merry Widow movie theater on Grattan and Chouteau adopted the same slogan, and every kid who brought in a small piece of iron or metal (which could be melted down for bullets) could get into the Saturday matinee free. Somehow Merlin and I found some pieces of metal and got to see a free movie.

In St. Louis, Dad and Mom never had enough of a yard for a garden. When they retired to Waterloo, Illinois, Dad started a garden of sweet corn, vegetables, and a big area for strawberries. He enjoyed working at it for years until his back gave out.

When we go back to Coffman, we visit another garden with not a vegetable in sight, but a beautiful array of flowers which change every time we stop by. Early in the season, its jonquils greet us after the long winter, then peonies in many colors were abundant in May, and over the summer we admired the daylilies. Every planting and variety is marked by name, and gardener Ed Wheetley is pleased to walk us through the rows, telling us about each one, and giving us a start of different plants that are spreading.

A highlight of the season was visiting Ed Wheetley (left)
with my friend from childhood, Pat Billington.

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When we lived in Coffman, Dad’s Aunt Maude lived in the home next door. The home set back with trees in the front, which we called Aunt Maude’s grove. It was always a beautiful place, but now made more beautiful by the lovely couple who live there. The large garden is enclosed with a white fence with a decorative door or gate on each side. A lily pond, gazebo, greenhouse, and shaded seating areas make up the landscape, along with a variety of plants and perennials, including old English roses, irises, ferns, and foxglove. One spot is more inviting than the next.

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Several years ago, when I first started making my return trips to Coffman, I knocked on the door of the house where Aunt Maude once lived, and was warmly welcomed by its current owners. Now we stop and visit each time we go to Coffman. And on our leaving, we are always told, “Come back again. You are always welcome.”

At 93 years of age, I sit on my patio, drinking my coffee in the early mornings or a cold beer in the evenings, and I think back on many seasons of gardening, and I am contented, thinking of the Psalm, “When I see your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and stars that you set in place, what are mere mortals that you are mindful of them?”

Bachelor Brothers

Standing from left: Elvin, Woodrow, Francis (Tanty), and Grandpa Louveau. Sitting: Me (about 16 years old), Grandma Louveau holding Tinker, a little dog Merlin and I bought in St. Louis and brought to Grandma. Merlin took this photo.

Editor’s Note: This edition of Coffman Chronicles takes a different format. I’d been wanting Mom to write about three of her mother’s brothers who never married and lived in the family home their whole lives. They rarely ventured more than a few miles from the “bottom land” of Illinois.

One of the things I admire most about Mom’s stories is the way she talks about every family member – with love and admiration. She had many laughs with family members, including these three uncles, but she never laughed at them. Mom loved visiting them and their home next to a set of railroad tracks. She says that at every visit the uncles and her grandparents would come out of the house to greet her and others. They were happy to see their visitors and would ask how long they could stay. Despite differences in age, living arrangements, and interests, they found much in common, and their love was mutual – and immeasurable.

Below is Mom’s description of her bachelor uncles with a few notes about her grandparents and some long saved photographs. – Chris Portell

Woodrow W. Louveau (June 24, 1913-June 25, 1973)

Woodrow was the youngest of the brothers and was considered “slow.” He likely never finished grade school. But he was a hard worker, happy to help others, and often relied on by his parents when they needed someone to run an errand.

Woodrow was talkative, often sharing news he heard on the radio, or in later years, the TV. He helped with the farm work and drove the car and tractor.

Woodrow and his brothers had some distinct similarities – they each smoked cigarettes, ate a diet of fried foods and home cured meats, as well as fresh vegetables from Grandma Louveau’s gardens, and they had a habit of heavy walking on the farmhouse’s wooden floors, never taking off their shoes until bedtime.

Speaking of bedtime, the three brothers and Grandpa Louveau slept in one big room upstairs. The room had a single bed where Grandpa slept and two double beds. Can you imagine how it smelled up there??

Elvin B. Louveau (January 20, 1909-March 21, 1980)

Elvin is remembered for his big personality and ability to make everyone laugh. He was well loved by family, friends, and neighbors. He would have made a good husband and father, but jobs were hard to come by. He would have had to leave the farming to his brothers and father. So, he stayed with his family. They rented land to farm, had enough to pay the bills, raised hogs, cows, and chickens.

Elvin had a big heart. When Grandpa Louveau was sick with cancer, Elvin went to St. Leo’s picnic, knowing other family members would be there. He told them Grandpa was getting worse. We all went back to the house, but Cliff and I stayed downstairs to limit the number of Grandpa’s visitors. Mom and Dad went upstairs to see Grandpa and took Ted, who was a toddler, as Grandpa said he wanted to see him. Mom’s other siblings, Gervie and Vallie, were also at the house to see Grandpa.

The siblings were all together at the house again on the day Grandpa Louveau was buried. Elvin wanted his brothers and sisters to all stay at the house that night, to spend one last night together as a family, so they did.

Several years later, after Grandma Louveau died, Elvin dated a widow with grown children.

Through the years, Elvin frequented a bar in Modoc called Snap’s. A neighbor said if you walked into Snap’s or another local bar and saw that Elvin was there you knew you were in for a good time. And at his wake, another neighbor said Elvin was the funniest man she ever knew.

Francis A. (Tanty) Louveau (April 29, 1901-May 2, 1987)

Tanty was happiest at home and rarely left the farm, although he would go to Mass sometimes. When he did, he looked odd and out of place in his dress clothes. On the farm, he always wore a billed cap, but he went to Mass with his bushy hair all combed back, his face clean shaven, but knicked in a few spots from the razor, and wearing his dress clothes instead of his usual overalls. He took his church going seriously and always looked very stern there, never looking around or giving a smile.

He did not learn to drive a car, but he could drive the truck and tractor. Because Tanty was not very sociable and stayed closed to home, Grandma Louveau babied him somewhat, often buying a banana or other treat from the store to bring home to him.

Tanty was the oldest but he lived the longest. He continued to live in the family home and took care of himself.

From left: Elvin, Tanty, Woodrow

When Merlin and I were young and we visited the Louveaus, Merlin would sleep upstairs with the men. In the morning, I’d hear him laughing and I’d want to go upstairs, too, but Mom and Grandma wouldn’t let me. Soon enough Merlin and the men would come downstairs.

Merlin and I always wanted to play near the railroad tracks but weren’t allowed to get close to them. One evening after supper, and after they’d been farming all day, all three uncles walked with us, about a mile, to see the train trestle, where the train crossed the Kaskaskia River.

How I wish I could be back in that old farmhouse with them again, feeling safe, secure, and loved, and hearing the train whistle in the distance one last time.

From left: Merlin, Woodrow, Elvin. Merlin was waiting for the train back to St. Louis. Roots station was the one closest to the Louveau home, but the station was really just an open shed in a field. The train didn’t always stop there, so Elvin would wave a bunch of lit newspapers so the conductor knew to stop.

Merlin is on the tractor with Grandma Loueau and Mom (Lola Boyd) in front. Elvin was taking the photo and he could always make Mom laugh, but Grandma Louveau didn’t always find his antics very funny.

From left: Woodrow and Elvin, dressed up for an occasion.

From left: Elvin, Dad (Adolph Boyd), Grandpa Louveau, Mary Lea Boyd. My Dad loved the Louveaus and said they were just like another family he knew and loved, the Perrys.

One day Elvin (shown here), Cliff, Merlin, and I went for a drive to Moro Island, not far from the bottom land. Homes there had been abandoned after flooding.

Woodrow, Elvin, Tanty, and Mary Lea.

Elvin, leaving for work on the railroad.

Gervais (Gervie) was the only uncle on Mom’s side who married. He married a teacher, Edna Runge, and they had a large family. He is the one who named me. He visited a friend in St. Louis and the friend’s neighbor had a little girl named Bonnie Jean. When he told Mom about her, she liked the name.

Mom (Lola) with Tanty next to her. He really didn’t want his picture taken according to Mom.

Merlin was on leave from the service when this photo was taken. He was Grandma Louveau’s favorite, and she got dressed up for the occasion. A crease in the photo hides Grandpa Louveau. Woodrow is kneeling, and Tanty and Elvin stand at Grandpa’s left.

Don’t Need Your Rockin’ Chair

These are all the students of a one-room school house in Coffman in about 1939. Francie Basler is in the front row, second to the left, with the cap on. My brother, Merlin, is in the middle row, all the way to the right, in a striped shirt. And, I’m in the second row at the left, with a bow and curl in my hair.

In early January of this year, my daughter, Kathy, drove me to a funeral Mass at
St. Vincent’s church in south St. Louis, and once again my memories took me back to Coffman, for this was the funeral of a long ago playmate, school mate, and cousin on the Harter side of our family who lived to be 93 years old.

His name was Francie, and my Grandmother Yallaly (nee Harter) was a sister to his Grandfather, Andrew Harter. My family had just moved from Minnith to a rented house down the hill from St. Catherine’s Catholic Church in Coffman, next door to Tucker and Zita Heberlie Boyd.

Dad would be teaching at a school about a mile from Coffman in an area called New Church. I was 6 years old, starting first grade in the fall, and Merlin was 8 and would be in the third grade, and we would attend the one-room Coffman school.

Across the road from our house and several yards down a dirt road was a large unpainted house. An older man, Uncle Bill Shaw, lived there with a married couple who worked for him. On down that same road and near Saw Mill Creek lived Dad’s Uncle Luther Boyd and Aunt Gen. The Uncle Bill Shaw home was the former home of Joe Coffman, one of the founders of Coffman and said to be a Confederate spy during the Civil War. Our ancestors have said the Coffman, Fields, and Boyd families all came from Kentucky and settled in the area of Minnith and Coffman and remained friends for generations. The Joe Coffman home, when we moved there, still had the remains of slave cabins. Now, Crown Valley Winery is situated there.

The day after we moved, Francie knocked on our door and asked if the little boy there would play with him. He also was 8 years old and and would be in the third grade. Francie and Merlin became fast friends and got along well. I played with them too, but Francie and I didn’t always get along as well.

We lived in that house about a year which was eventful. Merlin got scarlet fever and we were quarantined. While we were still quarantined, Dad’s Uncle Carrol Boyd, who was running the store and post office, shot and killed himself, but Dad couldn’t attend the funeral. Someone was needed to run the store, so we moved again – to the store building, which Dad’s grandfather had built, and Dad and Mom took over the store and post office, with Dad also teaching school.

A year passed, it was August and I was now 7 years old and in the fall would be in second grade. I woke up one morning and as I did every morning, had to pass through Mom and Dad’s room to go downstairs to the kitchen. But this morning, Mom was still lying in bed and a man was sitting in a chair by her bedside. I stared at him, and he stared back. Mom just smiled and told me to go downstairs and Dad would fix breakfast.

That man was the dreaded Dr. Sexauer who had cut the cyst from my head and given all the shots for typhoid fever when we lived in Minnith. I was a nosy kid, but had I never noticed Mom’s body changing? And no on thought to tell Merlin and me?? I don’t remember the rest of the day, only that at breakfast, Dad’s milk gravy was too thick. Merlin and I probably were sent to Francie’s house with his mother, Gertrude, to keep us out of the way. A baby girl was born later in the afternoon, our sister, Janice.

A hired woman, Lurlene Staten, came to live with us to help Mom for a couple of weeks. She had her own room which Mom tried to make nice for her and she also tried to keep Merlin and me from pestering her. At about that same time, Dad – probably at his wit’s end – decided to send Merlin and me on our long walk and ferry ride to our grandparents’ homes in Illinois.

Throughout the next few years, Merlin, Francie, and I had many adventures…and some fights. One day at school, Francie was mad and chased me all the way home from Gordon School, about a mile and a half, though he never caught me. I could always outrun them both.

Another summer day, Dad dropped the three of us off at a farm on Madden Creek Road. No one lived there and we picked cherries all day. We climbed from tree to tree and got full of cherries, sticky juice, ticks, and chiggers. We did a good job, though, and Mom and Gertrude canned several quarts.

I’ve written down my memories of Francie and given them to Jane, his daughter, when I met her at Francie’s funeral. Maybe one day we can meet in Coffman and I’ll tell her more stories about her Dad.

In the meantime, daughter Chris wants me to write about my three Louveau bachelor uncles and daughter Laurie wants me to write down my advice on child rearing – “dos and don’ts” and helpful hints on my 17 great grandchildren. No thanks. I will give one tip – never give a kid a choice on the menu. “Eat up,” or as Cliff would say, “Chow’s over!”

Instead of all that, I headed to Florida for a month and returned in early March. At the start of our stay, there was a full moon shining on the ocean, then long early morning walks on the beach, and time to just sit and stare at the waves with my feet in the sand. There were visits with cousins Marty, Connie, Jeanette, and Bobbie. And, I made some new friends, with other vacationers staying in the same condo building.

Fun time in Florida with cousins – Connie and Jeannette in the
back row with daughter, Laurie. Marty and Bobbie sitting with me.

Long walks are even better when I find a good shell.

A month in Florida reminded me of George Jones’ song, I Don’t Need Your Rockin’ Chair, with the lyrics, “I’m not ready for the junk yard yet. I still feel like a new Corvette.”

Now I don’t feel like a new Corvette, or even a Chevette, but I can still walk the sandy beaches and walk in the surf.

And, I can walk Boyd Road that runs along the Saline Creek in Coffman. I never know who I might see there. One time, two farm dogs joined daughter Chris and me there, until they found something more interesting in the brush alongside the road. That same day, Kevin Boyd in his pick-up stopped to talk, then we saw Jim and Barbie Bilhorn who were heading to Farmington, and we had a nice visit with them. Another day, a woman, while walking her dogs, stopped to chat. Turned out she was also a Boyd whose family went back to Tucker Boyd.

In two months, I’ll be 92, and I give thanks I can still go to Florida and take long walks in Coffman, and I look forward to doing that this spring.

A Fall Wedding

Cliff and I were married 70 years ago on Oct. 4, 1952

In the last days of summer, late in the evening, I sat on the old glider on the patio, having a beer and listening to Kris Kristofferson at the Philharmonic. I looked around at the plants, thinking of what has to be brought inside for the winter, what can be pitched or left to the weather.

House plants that I always call funeral plants must be brought in. They’re from Ted’s and Cliff’s funerals so I try to keep them alive in memory. Peace lilies that the post office and police departments always send. My friend Marlene claims you can’t kill them. They need a lot of water and now and then they send up white flowers.

I’ll bring in the metal buckets that hold the annuals and a white bucket with the words Pail in Comparison that I bought from a lovely lady, Mae, when Jan did her estate sale. The birdhouses will stay hanging in the lilac trees, but I’ll bring in an old wooden one our friend Moe gave me just because I admired it in his yard.

As I sat, I thought back over the summer and the week in June when Chris rented a house outside Coffman for five days. Daughters Carolyn and Jan with their four grandkids came down for two nights and the days were spent on the Saline, wading and searching for tadpoles. One early morning Chris and I were the only ones up, drinking coffee on the porch, looking out over the peaceful fields, and being real quiet.

Everyone else was still in bed. Two of the kids, Genevieve and Georgie, were upstairs with their Grandma Jan and twins, Cora and Emma, were on the first level with their Grandma Carolyn.

Now Chris is not a bit chatty in the morning and we were just enjoying the quiet when suddenly she asked me a question. Now neither of us can remember exactly what it was, though it must have pertained to mine and Cliff’s wedding in October 1952.

My answer turned into a long memory with details I hadn’t thought about in a long time. When Jan got up and joined us Chris wanted me to repeat it. Jan went home and told it to Bob who said she should have recorded it and they wanted me to write it down and turn it into a blog.

To me it is all a bit sad – after all it happened 70 year ago, and most of the people involved are gone. But, here goes of the story of a wedding that almost didn’t happen.

Now our beloved Great Aunt Rosie is in the story so I’ll start back in the 1930s in Minnith where we lived.

Aunt Rosie, sister of our grandmother Martha Yallaly, married Godfrey Kreitler and they were like a third set of grandparents to my brother Merlin and me, as both sets of grandparents lived in Illinois. They lived in Ozora where we went to Sunday Mass and many Sundays were spent at their house for Sunday dinner or at ours in Minnith.

After we moved to St. Louis we kept in touch through letters and after Uncle Godfrey died, Aunt Rosie would come to stay for a few days when we lived in Clinton Peabody.

Now, on to the wedding story…Cliff and I started out as friends, often going out as part of a group with others who lived in the Clinton Peabody housing project. When Cliff went into the service, he was dating Iva, another girl from our group. While stationed in Korea, he learned through a letter from his mother that Iva had married someone else. When he came home from service, we met up again in 1951 at Midnight Mass, started dating, became engaged, and our wedding was planned for October 4, 1952.

The weeks leading up to the wedding got rather hectic and my Dad’s company went on strike. Money was tight and I’m sure Mom and Dad were worried about the future.

Three days before the wedding, a cab pulled up and Aunt Rosie arrived with no notice. She was going to stay until after the wedding and help.

Now, needless to say, weddings were much simpler back then, but not for Mom. She sewed the bridesmaid dresses as well as my wedding dress. She would be cooking a big breakfast on the day of the wedding for the wedding party and a few guests, and a special cake was planned for the meal. Aunt Rosie and Mom held a long discussion about what type of cake to bake as Aunt Rosie was a great baker. Also, Mom and Dad’s families from Illinois would be coming to our house to visit after the Mass.

I can’t remember what set it off, but on the day before the wedding, Cliff and I were suddenly mad at each other and at the rehearsal we were at each other’s throats during the whole thing. After the rehearsal, the rest of the wedding party went off to a bar, leaving the two of us to “fight it out.” We were both mad and ready to call it off. But I considered all the efforts of my parents, relatives arriving with no notice of a cancellation, and I couldn’t do it. At the time, however, I would have been glad to see the last of him, and no doubt he felt the same. Anyway, we thrashed it out alone, made up, got it resolved, and went home early.

Next morning one of the groomsmen drove to pick up Uncle Jules Yallaly at Kenrick Seminary and asked for Fr. Boyd. They told him no one was there by that name, but another priest knew Uncle Jules was performing a wedding that day and made the connection.

Dad drove a car load to Holy Angels Church, then came back for the rest of us. Meanwhile, a cab pulled up in front of the house and my brother Merlin, discharged from the Air Force, had arrived just in time for the wedding. Of course we were delayed getting to the church, and I was told later Uncle Jules kept looking out the door of the sacristy and Cliff himself was beginning to wonder if I had changed my mind.

Mom and Aunt Rosie served the wedding breakfast, and Mom’s duties continued. Grandma Louveau wanted to visit a relative in the hospital and Mom went with her before the reception started.

The following week, Mom put the finishing touches on the suit she had made for our Uncle Spruce and Aunt Mary’s wedding the following Saturday when she and Dad would be their attendants. After a week’s honeymoon, Cliff and I joined the family at the wedding in Illinois.

My Dad, Uncle Spruce, Aunt Mary, and Mom, on Spruce and Mary’s wedding day.

Through the years, Aunt Rosie would still visit Mom and Dad and we would see her then. At one time, Merlin owned the one room old Black Jack school in the wooded hills outside of Coffman and used it as a clubhouse. Grandma Yallaly was visiting at Mom and Dad’s and they were all spending the night there. Passing through Ozora on their way to the clubhouse, they stopped to see Aunt Rosie. When it was time to leave, on the spur of the moment, Merlin asked Aunt Rosie if she’d like to go along. She replied, “I thought you’d never ask,” grabbed her purse and was ready to go.

An old one room school, a row of army cots, no running water, and an outdoor toilet – these dear ladies had been through it all before and enjoyed their weekend together.

Not a very clear picture, but the only one I could find of Aunt Rosie (left) and Grandma Yallaly together.

More years passed and one day I received a short note from Aunt Rosie along with a prayer card with a picture of St. Michael the Archangel. She wrote that St. Michael was the patron saint of police officers and she had prayed to him through the years for Ted’s safety. Now she was leaving the card to me to continue. She died that same year.

A visitor on one of Aunt Rosie’s last days reported Aunt Rosie saying, “Shall we recite the litany of the saints?” Aunt Rosie led the litany remembering each saint word for word.

Now, I’m not saying I am…but I like to think I’m a better person for knowing the love of some good strong women, like Mom, Grandma Louveau, Grandma Yallaly, Aunt Rosie, and many more.

A Summer Journal

My grandfather, Arthur Franklin Boyd, lived just 22 years. I wish I had asked
my grandmother, who lived to be over a 100, about him. His legacy lives on in the memories I have of his family and in the hills of Coffman, Missouri, where he lived.

The last few months have brought many opportunities to be outside and to be with family. Here are a few entries from my spring and summertime journal.

Each year, our Mother’s Day celebration at Kathy and Dave’s house also includes celebrating May birthdays. This past spring, great grandson, David, soon to be an eighth grader, asked if, for my 91st birthday, I had a bucket list.

I said I did, but it would include everyone who has passed on, so nothing on my bucket list was really possible. So, I suppose instead of a bucket list of things I’d like to still accomplish, I have a list of things I’d like to do again and memories I’d like to relive.

As I watched David helping his grandmother, Kathy, frying hush puppies, a memory quickly came to mind. I thought of our son Ted, who should have been with us, frying fish nearby in the yard – as he had done for many years – and sending a hot piece over to Cliff who would have been nearby, relaxing and smoking a cigar.

David, at right, with his siblings, Hannah and Tyler, and their 4-legged family members.

In the following days I thought again about David’s question and my mind went back through the years to when I was a small child, living in Minnith when Dad taught school there.

On hot summer evenings, after supper, we – Mom, Dad, Merlin and I – would walk across the field with our beloved old dog Maggie to the Saline Creek for a swim and bath in the clear cold water.

Raised on the Saline Creek, Dad was a good swimmer, and Merlin and I would take turns getting on his back and he would swim out into the deeper water.

Drying off, we would walk back to our house. On many evenings our elderly neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Tobe Brown, would be sitting on our front porch, waiting for us. They always seemed to know exactly where we were. They had no car but would walk over taking a short cut through the fields.

I would like to relive one of those summer nights.

And, I wish I could be back in the Illinois bottom land in the old farm home where Mom grew up. Uncle Elvin, Mom’s brother, would take Merlin and me to Roots tavern, and on the way there and back he would sing Strawberry Roan. Later, at night, we would be in the living room just before we all bedded down and he would get out the fiddle of his brother (also named Arthur) and play Soldier’s Joy. Then as we were dozing off to sleep, a freight train would rattle by blowing its lonesome whistle at the trestle. I would love to hear all those sounds again.

Trains still run on the tracks along the Illinois bottom land where my mother grew up.

Now I didn’t sit and dwell on David’s question or my list every day, but as the mood would strike me, I would give it another thought.

One evening on the patio, I thought of Cliff, just home from Korea, our meeting up again and dating. Saturday nights at Chum’s on the East side. The ceiling was blue netting with lights that looked like stars. The singer sounded like Frankie Laine and sang all of his songs. I would like to be back there once more, young again and with Cliff.

And of course, I’d like one more good mushroom hunt with our old friends Jim and Mary Lou. Cliff and I would get to their house at 7:00 a.m. to find Jim grumbling about the early hour, coming down the yard still buttoning his shirt, but already having his beer cooler iced up. Back then we’d start finding mushrooms as soon as we entered the woods. On the way home, Mary Lou and I would open a beer and start counting them in the backseat.

And, something else to relive: After giving birth to each of our six children, the relief and joy of awaking and a nurse telling me that I had a healthy baby.

A few years ago my cousin Joan, on the Boyd side, told of a trip to Scotland, finding we were descendants of Bonnie Prince Charles and visiting the remains of a castle belonging to the Boyd clan. She had found the original name was Boit meaning red head. Would a trip to Scotland be on my bucket list? Of course not. How tiring would that trip be?

I’ll settle for a trip to Coffman, drive past the old Boyd and Harter homes, and wade in the cold Saline. We’ll stop at Aunt Maude Boyd Gegg’s old home to visit with the Thompsons who live there now and walk through the grove. We might drive to the end of Boyd Road and return another book on family history that Kevin Boyd has loaned to me. We’ll admire his yard with peach and pecan trees and the old log cabin of his grandparents that still stands on his property.

Kevin Boyd’s grandfather, Buster, lived in this little log cabin which stands on the family property.

No, at 91 I am contented. I sit on my patio, open a beer, listen to the murmur of the birds, watch a robin bathe in the birdbath, give thanks for a loving family, and settle for complete contentment

On the patio with granddog Henderson

We all have our story to tell

Daughter Chris gave me a book by Anna Quindlen titled, “Write for Your Life.” I had read most of the author’s books of fiction and especially liked “Blessings.” But this is a non-fiction book, and the author encourages people to write letters and every day happenings in their lives. She said “we can explore, learn, and connect through writing which gives us something to hold on to in a changing world.”

Now I already knew about letter writing from my mother and her family. As a young wife and mother she had moved from the bottom land in Illinois to the Missouri side of the Mississippi where Dad was from.

Letters were exchanged through the years, with visits only once or twice a year. Dad was a teacher so Mom always had writing paper, but Grandma Louveau would sometimes run out of a tablet and use the blank side of a calendar page if she could find nothing else.

Through the years of our moving, Mom always kept in touch through letters with her mother, sister Vallie, and cousins, as well as with her friends, including Judith Rudloff, Jean Billington, Verna Coffman, and Helen Bequette.

When Mom and Dad moved from St. Louis to Waterloo, Illinois, then to Ste. Genevieve, Mom and I wrote many letters back and forth as long-distance phone calls were too costly. Now I continue to write letters, mostly to younger cousins since many of my family are gone. They write back to me, and it’s such a pleasure to find a long letter in the mailbox. I read them over and over and leave them out so visiting family can read them too.

Years ago daughter Jan gave me a blank journal encouraging me to write down daily happenings and I have been fairly faithful with it.

My family likes to hear my stories of years gone by, especially when we go back to Coffman and drive the roads where Merlin and I walked to school and the creek roads which they find hard to keep track of, despite our many visits.

Six years ago we were in Florida in January. We had stayed on the beach till long after sunset and were back on our balcony listening to the surf and having a drink when a daughter said, “Tell some of your Coffman stories.” So I told them about my Great Aunt Lizzie, Grandma Yallaly’s sister, who married a man who lived back in the “pinery.” The pinery is an area with lots of pine trees near Gordon School, which my brother and I attended. It’s a beautiful area, but houses were few and far between, and I’ve often wondered what it must have been like for Aunt Lizzie to make that decision to leave her new husband and walk back to her father’s home which still stands near Coffman.

Now there was another Great Aunt Lizzie – a sister to my grandfather William Yallaly.

Hearing my stories, the kids would get confused about the Great Aunts Lizzie and other names in my big, extended family, and finally our daughter Chris said, “You should start a blog,” and I said “what’s a blog??” and that’s how Coffman Chronicles began.

So, I continue to write – letters, journals, and my memories in this blog, and I feel Anna Quindlen would be pleased with me.

But oh, how I regret not asking more questions to my elders. We were always close to our Aunt Rosie Kreitler and many times I could have asked her about Aunt Lizzie – her sister who left her husband Bill Ponder after just three days.

And, I really regret not asking Grandma Yallaly about her first husband, Arthur Boyd – my father’s father – and how she managed after his sad death.

Now maybe they would not have wanted to talk about their memories, but still I wish I had asked.

Favorite Summer Places

I came across this photo of the glider when it was new and a gift to us on a Mother’s Day years ago. Granddaughter Becky, pictured here, is now a mother of five.

The patio looks about the same this season. The old blue door that neighbor Nate attached in place is still here as is the old glider. I have made new covers from daughter Jan’s matelasse couch covers and they look nice.

The garden is producing – tomatoes are ripening well, but the cucumber vines don’t like the heat.

The patio and garden are favorite places in the summer, and so is Coffman. In June, daughter Chris took a week off work and rented a house for us outside Coffman and family joined us. We visited old friends and new, and of course Mayberry Cemetery.

Just beyond Mayberry Cemetery -these beautiful hills.

After a day at the creek, George, Emma, Genevieve, and Cora enjoyed roasting marshmallows.

At Avon, on the way to Mayberry, we slow down to look at a garden along the road. Weedless, rows are straight, tomato stakes in a perfect line and always the same height. I don’t know who lives there. Back in the 30s, my Dad told me it was an old Boyd home. We never see anyone there, but if I did I would stop and talk to them. At 91, I don’t hesitate.

Even on the gravel bar at the Saline, I ask people who pull up where they are from and their names. We have made new friends there, including some Boyds. We back track through the generations to find how we are related.

The gravel bar at the Saline on Boyd Road is a special place and the rule is to leave the creek bank better than you found it. On arriving one day I had seen a crumpled styrofoam cup and on packing up and leaving I looked for it. A man there with his grandkids asked what I was looking for, and when I told him, he said he had already picked it up.

My Dad loved the Saline but never took us there in August. He said it was the “dog days” then. But one hot day, we’re going to head there to a spot waiting for us and we’ll while away the afternoon with our feet in the water.

Friendship

It all started at the old Tower Grove station on Hartford Street off south Grand Avenue in south St. Louis in the late 1950s. In the photo above, Cliff is squatting in right front row (35 years old – hard to imagine). His buddy Rock (Francis Rakowiecki) in the back row, far right, wearing a hat. Al Schaeffer is directly behind Cliff and Tony Tucker (one of Cliff’s golfing buddies) is the third one from Cliff’s right. The ones I knew are all gone, as I imagine all the rest are too, this being nearly 60 years ago.

We lived a few blocks away from the station on South Spring and we attended St. Pius Church on south Grand, and our kids went to school there. Rock and Bernie, his wife, lived a block down the street from us and through the men working together, Bernie and I met. She and Rock owned their home and we rented a three room flat.

Cliff and Rock played on the same softball team, played pinochle, and golfed after work on Thursdays and their days off. A favorite hangout of theirs was nearby – the Town Pump, owned by our friend Jim O’Leary who sponsored their softball team. Later, when they worked together at another station, they became friends with another mail carrier, Kenny Loehr whose father ran Loehr’s Lounge and later sponsored their team. Bernie and I would take the kids to their games then go home while the men stayed to drink beer.

The Tower Grove station closed, the carriers were assigned to different stations and Cliff and Rock no longer worked together, but still golfed and played ball, and Bernie and I remained friends.

We shared maternity tops and attended a birthing class at the old St. Anthony’s Hospital where we were the oldest mothers there. Expectant mothers were reading a popular book, “Thank you, Dr. Lamaze.” I don’t recall it being much help though when “push came to shove.”

After our fourth child was born, my doctor, whose office was near Grand and Olive, moved farther west and I didn’t care to follow him, so I started going to Bernie’s doctor, whose office was nearer.

(By the way, did you ever hear the old southside expression, “If I’m not right, I’ll kiss your ass on Grand and Olive and give you an hour to draw a crowd”? It was one of Cliff’s favorite expressions, though I haven’t heard it in years.)

Anyway, I never had much of a rapport with any of my doctors, but it really doesn’t matter since they’re all gone by now.

When the kids were young, Bernie and I joined an exercise class together one night a week, and we also played volleyball through the years. The kids grew, started school, and Bernie and I rode their bikes to Carondelet Park and played tennis early on Wednesday mornings. Around that time, Wednesday mornings were the day for yard sales which had started to become common. So, we’d stop at them on our way home. After awhile, we decided yard sales were more fun than chasing after tennis balls so we quit tennis and devoted ourselves to yard sales each Wednesday morning, but were always home by noon when the younger kids would walk home for lunch. It was a short break from our duties as wives and mothers, but it became a lasting friendship that I’ve cherished. Early on in our friendship, we watched the news coverage of President Kennedy’s assassination. And through the years we shared many good times and bad, told each other our troubles and triumphs, and cried together a time or two.

Though we didn’t know each other growing up, Bernie and I didn’t live far apart during parts of our childhood. My family lived in the Clinton Peabody housing project, while Bernie lived with her family in the Soulard neighborhood, attending St. Joseph Croatian Catholic Church. She remembered helping her aunt clean St. Raymond Maronite church when it was in a flat.

We both grew up poor and all through our lives were very frugal. At one time, Bernie took on some house cleaning jobs and passed on a couple to me. The older kids were married and the younger ones were in college. They all had part time jobs while in school, but the house cleaning money helped with car repairs, new tires, insurance, etc.

I enjoyed crafting and made a variety of home decorating items, including plastic mesh needlework, gift baskets, and clear glass ornaments filled with greenery, tiny pinecones, and berries. Bernie was in charge of the plant booth at St. Pius’s annual picnic. So, while at yard sales, I would buy craft items, such as ribbons, baskets, and pretty cups and saucers, and Bernie was always looking for pretty pots and containers. Sometimes we would drive to Stuckmeyer’s nursery in Illinois where she would buy flats of plants and the nursery was always very generous in donating some for charity. When it was time for the parish picnic, her booth was filled with beautiful potted plants and flowers.

More years went by, our kids grew and married, and we attended each other’s family events.

Bernie helped me celebrate my 60th birthday.

Bernie always made the good times better.

Cliff and Rock at our 50th wedding anniversary party.

Although she usually preferred just a small glass of sweet liqueur, Bernie drank a Stag in solidarity of our friendship at our anniversary party.

Some days during our weekly outings, we would hit a good estate sale and find treasured vintage items. Each Christmas, I would fill gift bags of items from the yard sales for our five daughters and daughter-in-law, which they all seemed to enjoy. The girls started going to the sales as well. Eventually Jan and Carolyn met Vera Drury who had her own estate sale business. She taught them a lot and got them started on their own. That evolved into Family Affair Estate Sales. Like most small businesses, it was slow going at first, but soon kept us busy, and we’ve been steadily working at it for nearly 30 years.

Through her cleaning customers, Bernie referred us to a few sales and helped sometimes. I remember one sale they had early on. Bernie and I stopped by after our “yard saling” and a dining room table was filled with dirty glassware. We started washing and drying it all because back then old glassware was a big seller. Cliff had retired by then and would help by organizing and pricing items in the garage. Later when Ted and Bob Hoff retired they started helping also.

Time passed, we aged, and Bernie had minor knee surgery. A few years later, I had the same trouble and went to her doctor who did the same surgery on my knee. Yard sales gradually moved to Saturdays, but Bernie and I still met each Wednesday morning. Sometimes we’d go to Mass, walk at Shaw’s Garden, or have coffee. And, each Christmas season, we took a day to go to the shops in Kimmswick. The men slowed down a bit as well. Cliff played pinochle every day at the card club in Carondelet Park and Rock volunteered with the St. Vincent de Paul charity.

Then when we were in our mid 70s, Bernie had to have surgery and an infection set in afterward. Her body couldn’t recover, and one day Rock called to say she was being placed in hospice. Laurie drove me to the hospital to visit her. When I got to Bernie’s room, she cried and said we could no longer go to yard sales on Wednesday mornings. Rock said it was the first time she’d cried since getting sick.

After Bernie was gone, each year on my birthday, Rock and their daughter Sue would bring an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. With Cliff, we’d sit on the patio eating cake, and Cliff and Rock would rehash their softball and golf games, their work at the post office, bosses they disliked, and the time, late one night after a card game, they made a wrong turn and ended up in Kinloch.

Now they too are gone. I look back on my early years of moving from a one-room country school in Coffman, Missouri, to a city school and living in the housing project during the war years. Cliff and his family moved from Old Mines, Missouri, to the same housing project. In Old Mines, they lived in mine company houses where they papered the walls with newspaper to help keep out the cold. They had no car, radio, or clock.

I remember Bernie telling a memory of her mother wrapping her lunch sandwich in newspaper. They didn’t subscribe to the paper and she had no idea where it came from. Did those long ago years help to toughen her up?

Do those hard times help me to weather the sadness now that they are all gone? Maybe so. I do know that I remember them all with love and I give thanks for what was a true and lasting friendship.

The Roots of My Raising

The home of my great grandparents, Thomas M. and Mary Ann (Cozzens) Boyd,
still stands in Coffman.

This past fall, the warm weather lasted longer than usual. I’d worked outside for two days and though there was still much to do, I sat on the old glider on the patio, drank a beer, and watched the squirrel run along the wood fence and then leap into the lilac bushes.

The chipmunk was busy too, though I didn’t know at what. He couldn’t do too much more damage to the pots of annuals – they were on the way out although still looking good.

The black-eyed Susan vine growing on a gate at the garden had spread all over the ground, blooming away. I cut off sprigs and put them in a vase on the kitchen table.

My black-eyed Susan vine in a vase given
to me by Kevin Boyd.

As a bird hovered nearby, wanting to roost on a ledge above my head, I knew I couldn’t sit there much longer. But still I lingered. I thought back on the last few days – our 17^th great grandchild had been born, Olivia Irene, another little redhead like her mother. And, I’d gone to two family reunions – a Boyd reunion in Coffman and a gathering of Boyd, Yallaly, and Hahn cousins at daughter Laurie & Bob’s house.

Beginnings and endings.

Cousin Mary asked about another Coffman Chronicles blog and I replied I had told all my old stories. She said to write about us cousins and our get-togethers. Now after a few months of busyness and the holidays, I’m writing about the loving ties of kinship that hold us all together. And as I do, I remember the lines of an old song by Merle Haggard, The Roots of My Raising Run Deep.

As a few lines in the song say, “I’ve come back for the strength that I need…The roots of my raising run deep.” And, that’s how I feel whenever I visit Coffman or spend time with cousins.

Back in the 1930s when we lived in Coffman, a Boyd reunion was always held at the Old Pine Log Baptist Church, just a mile or so out of Coffman. We never attended, but last spring, while spending the day on Boyd Road, along the Saline, we met Kevin Boyd and had a nice visit with him and his sister. He said they still held the reunion on the first Sunday of October and invited us.

Six months later, daughter Laurie and I booked a two-nights’ stay at Chaumette Winery so we could attend the reunion and enjoy some extra time in Coffman. On a late Saturday afternoon, along the way to the winery, we drove past the old McDaniel’s store, now called the Coffman House, and we spotted some of our Yallaly cousins there on the patio.

Laurie made a rapid turn around and we were all surprised to see one another. They were there to visit their Aunt Doretta Gegg Herzog and the old Gegg homestead. We visited for a delightful two hours, catching up on family news. They planned to go to Charleville Winery the next afternoon and we agreed to meet them there after the Boyd reunion.

Though we knew no one but Kevin Boyd, we were welcomed and met his brother and sisters. Their ancestor, Nathaniel Boyd, was a brother to my great grandfather, Thomas M. Boyd, who had donated the land for Coffman and built the old store and bank. Like many country reunions, this one included much delicious homemade food – enough to fill two tables. I’d brought a homemade apple pie and was glad to see it get eaten up.

When hearing I’d never seen the Boyd ancestry book, Kevin drove home to get it and told me to keep it until the spring when I was again down on Boyd Road. Which I will do. Kevin also gave me a mason jar, a beautiful light blue color, with the name Boyd on it, and he filled it with flowers. I think, for Kevin, the roots of his raising run deep as well. He lived away from Coffman for many years, but now lives in the family home on Boyd Road.

The Boyd book Kevin loaned me has this photo in it. It is of my great grandfather, his parents, and siblings. Back row from left: Telitha Ann Boyd, Thomas M. Boyd, Aaron C. Boyd, William Henry Boyd, Marion Franklin Boyd, Mary Louvina Boyd. Front row from left: Sarah Jane Boyd, Margaret Louisa Boyd, Martha (Counts) Boyd and John Boyd (my great great grandparents), Rutha Orlena Boyd, Joel Elijah Boyd. These are the ancestors of some of those who gather each year for the Boyd reunion at the Pine Log Baptist Church.

After the reunion we drove to Charleville Winery and visited again with some of the Yallaly cousins and enjoyed the view of the beautiful countryside.

The next Sunday, we all met at Laurie and Bob’s for our annual cousins’ lunch. My father was a Boyd and his five brothers and a sister were Yallalys – half kin, but their ties couldn’t have been stronger had they been full blooded siblings.

In the 30s when my brother Merlin and I made our long walk together and arrived on Moro Island, our uncles, Spruce and Willie, and our Aunt Ruth were still single and living at home. Through the years of our childhood they all showed us the greatest love and patience.

Now, the children of Spruce, Willie, and Ruth, as well as my Uncle Tom, gather with me. Our cousin Jeanette, Ruth’s daughter, has written a loving tribute to her mother, “My Book of Ruth,” with Hahn, Yallaly, Boyd, and Harter History and Memories. Every niece and nephew of Ruth’s ordered their own copy. We make a toast to celebrate the book and admire Jeanette for all her research, creativity, and hard work.

Cousin Dave Hahn and his wife, Debbie, join us this year. Dave had written a poem about his mother, Ruth. Cousins Marty and Johnny Yallaly put Dave’s poem into a song. Beautiful music! A joyous time of togetherness which we all hope to continue.

Johnny Yallaly and Marty Yallaly

Connie (Marty) Yallaly, Susan (Craig) Yallaly, and
Sharon (Johnny) Yallaly

Mary Winkeler, Bobbie Hahn Toenges,
Margie Yallaly Bertel,
and Tom (Joan Yallaly) Sucher

Brothers-in-law Ray (Mary) Winkeler and
Larry (Margie) Bertel

One more story of my father’s about the Pine Log Baptist Church: As a child, after his mother remarried, he spent his summers with his Boyd grandparents in Coffman. The Boyds were Baptists and attended Pine Log Baptist Church. He recalled going there and loved listening to his Boyd aunts, Maude, May, and Nettie, singing the old Baptist songs. His mother, Martha, a Catholic, worried about his attendance at a Baptist Church and suggested he mention that in confession. On hearing an account of his “sins,” the old priest was highly outraged and yelled at him.  Poor little boy! Now, I don’t know the rest of the story, nor do I know if he ever went back to the Pine Log Baptist Church. What I do know is that my cousins and I all continue to cherish our kinship, our old stories, and we cling to the thread that holds us together.

And through the years, I’ve wanted to connect with others who might remember and share some of the old stories. So, I’ve gone back to Minnith, Ozora, and Coffman, and knocked on the doors of homes I had visited as a child – homes of the Coffmans, Aunt Maude Boyd, and Pat Billington. I was uncertain if I’d be welcomed or if the Boyd name would be remembered. (When my sons-in-law who were city bred, heard that I’d traveled the country roads, knocking on “strangers'” doors, with my daughters – their wives – they had a few questions. What if we’d come across meth labs? Gun toters?)

Now, through those renewed contacts, Missouri cousins have met Illinois cousins and there are promises of fishing trips and get-togethers. And I have met Jerry and Judy, the son and daughter-in-law of Ada Perry LeClare. Ada and Pat Billington’s mother, Jean, were sisters and many times we were all together at the Perry home, playing with Pat, his sister, Helen, and cousin, Patsy.

Now, Pat and Jerry live near each other and Pat wanted me to meet Jerry. Pat’s daughter, Lisa, and her husband have a new home “down in the bend,” a short distance from Pat and down the road from the old Yallaly home of aunts Angie and Ethel. The old Perry home was a few yards farther, but has been torn down.

Daughter Chris and I were invited for Sunday lunch, and Lisa served a delicious meal of ham and beans and cornbread, which I haven’t cooked for myself since my husband Cliff died five years ago. And, to make it all more memorable, Lisa’s husband, Bruce, reached for the bottle of hot sauce and doused his beans with it which is exactly what Cliff would do. How could the day get any better?

Pat Billington and his daughter, Lisa

Of course I had to tell Jerry about me being a very young girl with my parents at his parents’ shivaree (also spelled chivaree.) This was a traditional custom on the first night that a bride and groom moved into their new residence. Years ago, if a couple didn’t have a wedding reception, friends, neighbors, and family would gather after dark in the couple’s yard unannounced, circle the house, banging on pots and pans, making a loud racket. The couple would welcome them in amidst much laughter and carrying on. Simple gifts would be brought, unwrapped, mostly household items. My parents gave them a cooking pot filled with dried beans. After all had left and Ada and her husband, Cotton, retired to bed, they found all the beans had been spread between the sheets, by an unknown party.  Later, it was thought that my mother was the culprit, but she said she did not do it, and I believe her. It was probably Ada’s brothers, Charlie or Bob.

What will life be like when we no longer have our memories?

Pat and I at 89 and 90 years of age both recall that event since we were there. All of those dear people are gone, but Pat and I hold those memories in our hearts and of course tell them when someone will listen.

The Next Decade

In her later years, my Mom, Lola Boyd, mentioned on occasion that living through her 70s was easy enough, but her 80s were much more challenging. Still, she rarely complained, aged with grace and dignity, and I’m grateful for the example she set. She did not live to see her 90s, however, so I must set my own course for this next decade, after turning 90 in May.

Fortunately my health is good and I have few complaints except I’m more forgetful and my editor (daughter Chris) says my writing meanders a bit. But, isn’t that what old people do? Meander? Hmmmmmph…!

Turning 90 was a milestone I celebrated on multiple days with family and friends. I’d like to tell you about it. And, after that I will tell you about the months leading up to that milestone…and to spring…and to all the changes that have come after a long winter during a pandemic.

A little meandering never hurt anyone…

For the first time in well over a year, our whole family was able to gather on the Saturday before Mother’s Day. Daughter Kathy hosted as she has for many years and before dinner, she made a lovely toast to all those who joined us in our celebration in the past but who are no longer with us: Cliff, Ted, Merlin, Dorothy, Mouse, and Geno.

Daughter Kathy with her husband, Dave, and dear friend, Yvonne. Hank also joined in the celebration.

Sons-in-law, Dave and Joe.

Just some of the Greats: Hannah, holding Cora; Genevieve (with ball); Alli holding Emma; Bella and George

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Kathy’s garden always makes a beautiful setting for our Mother’s Day celebration.

Granddaughter Amanda cleverly put together these decorations.

On the actual day of my birthday, I first went to Mass, and when I returned home, a balloon was tied to my mailbox and a bouquet of flowers waited for me on my front porch, thanks to my neighbor Dave.

And later in the day, a few friends and family members gathered at my house for a luncheon. (I didn’t cook or bake a thing!)

Lorraine and I have been friends since our grade school years at Holy Guardian Angels parish.

One week later, cousins joined me on the Saline Creek in Coffman, Missouri, for a picnic lunch and lots of visiting. It was wonderful to be together — and to hug!

Back row: Marty Yallaly and Mike Yallaly; Front row: Mary Winkeler, Margie Bertel, Bonnie Boyd Portell, Bobbie Toenges, Jeanette Melliere

Pat Billington joined me and his Yallaly cousins on the Saline Creek.

What a difference from a few months earlier. Those months leading up to spring were not always easy, but I kept busy and wrote about my days, and I’d like to share that with you now, meanderings included.

April

The weather has been cloudy and today it rained and even hailed. I kept busy baking and freezing the annual Easter egg cakes which I will ice Holy Saturday. My friend Bernie Rakowiecki and I started the custom years ago. To start with we had one pan (which made a dozen cakes) and we traded it back and forth until we accumulated six pans.

Bernie’s daughters, Sue and Eileen help me celebrate my birthday every year.

These cupcake eggs are part of our Easter tradition.

Gradually I found enough at estate and yard sales to give some to granddaughter Becky who now bakes the cakes for her five children. I’ve now baked them for 40 years. I gauge the years on the age of grandson Brian who was about two years old when on Easter he upended the whole tray of eggs that was setting on a low table. We brushed them off and none was the wiser.

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• 

Brian, now with children of his own – Simon and Clara

Holy Week

We have week day Mass in the church, but Sunday Mass is held in the gym as are Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday observations. The gym is chilly and the metal chairs are cold, but we persevere. Hopefully God hears me through my grumblings.

Thankfully, I and most of my family have gotten our vaccines and we feel somewhat relieved. We tend to mingle more, though we are still careful. Though our family all live in the same city, I hadn’t seen some of the Greats in a year. Two-year-old Clara was one of them. Her family had visited me on the driveway, but each time she had been asleep in her car seat. Last week they came inside and she was a lively, bubbly toddler who came right up to me and sang loudly, “Wheels on the Bus,” in its entirety. Then, she sat on my lap and read her book to me. Her father, at the same age, was the one who dumped the Easter cakes.

Daughter Laurie and her husband, Bob, felt it safe enough to resume their annual Easter egg hunt, but only with our family. It was a beautiful day and so good to see everyone. I came home and had a nap, then iced the egg cakes I had frozen. On Easter Sunday, I was invited for dinner at the home of granddaughter Becky and her husband, Chris. It was a lovely, warm evening. We had a delicious meal on the deck, then a loud game of spoons with the Greats.

Now on Easter Monday, I go meandering again. This morning, there’s news of the sad death of a young man – a dear friend of a granddaughter as well as news of the worsening health of a son of a very old and dear family friend. Our ties go back to our childhood, our growing up years, and into our old age. These ties and memories are also connected to my husband and his family, who are all gone. Though saddened, the weather is beautiful, and I spend the day outdoors, filling yard waste cans with leaves from flower beds.

Mushroom Season

The next day I have an invitation to go mushroom hunting, but had a previous invite to the library, recently opened again on a limited basis. Daughter Kathy had made us an appointment for a 45-minute visit. Too good to pass up! (And, I figured I’d find more books than morels.) What a wonderful half hour – a bag full of books, including two new ones by Jonathan Kellerman and C.J. Box.

Once home from the library, I washed a bedroom window and screen. My helpful neighbor Dave came over, put the washed screen back in place, and blew leaves out from under the lilac bushes which are leafed out and about to bloom. A good day!

Through much sadness, April is looking up, and I’ve seen two bluebirds bathing in the birdbath, and I’m hopeful for more invitations for mushroom hunts since we have had some warm nights and a nice rain – a must for mushrooms.

And, in fact, within days, I receive an invitation. Two new friends – very dear people – took me and son-in-law, Bob, to their mushroom woods. It was a warm, wonderful day. We found several, and they insisted we keep them.

On another day, daughter, Chris, and I found 29 at one of our spots. On arriving home, she ran to the store for bread and milk, so we could have mushrooms in milk gravy on toast. I cleaned them, rolled them in flour, and fried them in butter. Another day, I fried a skillet full for grandson Joey after he had cut my lawn.

A few days later, we’re out again, and the woods are lovely, May apples are up, sweet william and dogwoods are blooming and I think the season is nearly over. Then I find some fresh black ones, which are always the first to come out. If I live to be 90 I will never understand mushrooms.

Late in April, we are back in Coffman. My old friend, Pat, his daughter, Lisa, and her granddaughter, Lonnie, take us to a wooded spot on the Big Saline where they had found morels in earlier years. It was a bit of a scary ride in a Kubota, driven by an 88-year-old man who didn’t slow down for muddy ditches.

No luck finding mushrooms, but we had a very enjoyable visit with that loving invitation, “Come back again – you are welcome anytime.”

The afternoon was spent on the gravel bar of the Saline Creek on Boyd Road with pizza and beer from Charleville Brewery. While walking along Boyd Road, looking for mushrooms along the banks, we met a woman walking her dogs. Turned out she was a Boyd. We back tracked through the generations to her father-in-law who was the son of Tucker Boyd whose family had lived in Coffman when I was growing up there.

Later, daughter Chris took a longer walk along the road and a man in a pick-up truck stopped to ask if she was finding any mushrooms. As they chatted, she learned he was a Boyd, too, and encouraged him to come back to talk to me – if he had time. He did and made his way back to the gravel bar. We had a nice long chat. He told me his parents’ names and I remembered seeing their recent graves at Mayberry Cemetery. He is much younger than I am and didn’t have the same memories of Coffman but we had an enjoyable visit. Later I recalled that it was exactly a year since our son Ted, in his last good days, called and said, “Let’s go down to Coffman and see where Boyd Road ends.” That day, we drove the road to where it ends and unknown to us, we were in front of the home of Kevin Boyd, the man I had just met on Boyd Road at the Saline Creek.

March

The weather during the last week of February was a welcome change from the cold and ice. The snow was powdery, but one day the sun shone and the temperature warmed up enough for some good snowballs and I made the snowball ring shown to us by a friend from Norway. My brother’s friend, Art, during World War II, while stationed there met and married a Norwegian girl, Helen. Years ago, while spending a snowy day at Merlin’s clubhouse in the hills above Coffman, Helen showed her children and our son Ted how to build the snowball ring. Through the years, we’ve continued to make them when we have a good snowfall.

Now at 89 years old, I’m hesitant to stand in my front yard making snowballs, but cannot resist. So, I work at making a few buckets of them on the patio out back. At dusk, I carry the buckets to the front of the house and make my ring in the front yard. Then I place a lighted candle in a fruit jar and set it inside the ring. Sometimes it burns until daylight when I go out in the morning for my paper. Sometimes I wish for small children living on my street and I could show them how to make the rings and we could line the street.

Even though our family has skipped all of our family gatherings and I am mostly content, short outings are very welcome. On two cold days, daughter Jan and I walked through the picturesque towns of Maeystown and Elsah, Illinois. The streets were deserted, but we ordered a carryout lunch from a bar window and ate in the car. We also looked for eagles at Pere Marquette park but didn’t spot any.

A few weeks later, a warm day was predicted, so daughter Laurie packed a lunch and two lawn chairs and we drove to the St. Mary exit off highway 55 and drove to the Saline Creek bridge. A four-inch sheet of ice had formed on the bridge and was cracked into chunks by the crossing trucks. Three men were shoving the ice chunks into the rushing creek and we helped somewhat, but cautiously.

After the ice was cleared, I asked the older of the men if he lived nearby and he named the road he lived on. I remembered a family of that name from years ago living near Art’s old clubhouse and asked if he knew Art. He replied yes and he was in the process of buying the property where the clubhouse had stood and he also owned the adjoining property and was dealing with Art’s son.

I like to feel a thread runs through my stories and now I feel the thread on the old clubhouse has ended. We had a nice chat and I asked if he knew where the old Fields home was. They were family friends and my father had boarded there when he was a young man, teaching school.

The man knew the house – it was not far away, and he directed us which fork in the road to take. We quickly found it, though in my memory, it was unpainted and set farther back from the road. As we backtracked across the bridge we thanked him for his directions. He was settled in a chair on the gravel bar, watching his brothers fish while he had a beer and kept an eye through his binoculars on the eagles’ nest in a tall dead tree over the Saline . I’m a firm believer in the motto, “Learn to entertain yourself,” and I’ve preached it to our kids. Now, that man was a good example!

From there, we drove to the Saline Creek along Boyd Road, set up our chairs on the gravel bar, ate our lunch, then took a walk. The sun was warm and we shed our jackets and agreed we had a good day.

February

Family are still dropping off groceries, meals, and bird seed. I had been attending Mass until the past week when it was icy and cold. Though I didn’t have the energy or inclination to do much, I was very thankful for good health and a warm house. Then a strange thing happened.

Months ago, daughter Laurie had given me a yard of pretty ribbon with the words, “the art of writing” running along the length of the ribbon. I strung it behind a picture on a desk in my bedroom. One morning, I found the ribbon laying on the dining room floor. No one had been here except me, and I have no idea how it got there. Is Cliff, gone now for four years, trying to tell me something? If so, WHAT? One year after he passed, I had just gotten home from a Florida trip with the kids and as I was unpacking, a small candle in a glass jar fell off the bathroom shelf above the sink and I figured it was Cliff’s spirit, either saying “welcome home” or “where the hell have you been?”

Does he want me to write another blog post? Did he like the last one about meat pies so much? He was always quick to instruct, but I need a bit more information here. After all, I’ll be 90 in two months, prone to forgetfulness and very slow to assimilate something new or different. So, I pondered on it all for a few days and then just sat down and started to write about daily events.

During this pandemic, people are cooking more, baking bread, trying new recipes, and taking up hobbies they never had time for before. In the 1950s, living on Spring Ave., busy with small children, a neighbor told me about evening knitting classes at Sears on south Grand -within walking distance. I joined and was grateful ever after for the things I learned, and through the years I made scarves, afghans, shawls, and baby blankets, and I enjoyed the work and best of all, I learned to entertain myself while at home and used many of the articles as gifts.

I’d learned how to sew years before that and often sewed matching outfits for our girls. When they got into Barbie Dolls, I started sewing doll clothes as well. Cliff was a mailman, leaving the house at 5:00 a.m. and I would stay up after he left for work and secretly sew Barbie outfits to put away for Christmas gifts. By now, it was in the 60s and I was working on several doll outfits on November 22, 1963, the day John Kennedy was shot and killed. I stopped sewing the rest of that day.

In the late 70s, our older kids were getting married and the younger ones were still in school. We were living in St. Cecilia’s Parish and Aunt Vesta and Uncle Tom lived in the parish also. Vesta was very involved in parish activities and she recruited me into some chores – fish fries, church cleaning and the arts and craft booth at the annual fall festival.

Vesta was not always the most patient person, but during my growing up years she had always shown me great patience and love, so I went along with her requests to help out at the parish. A box of naked dolls had been donated and one of the parish ladies insisted I take some home to dress them for the arts and crafts booth. I knew the difficulty of dressing such a small doll, but grudgingly gave in and took one home. I showed it to my neighbor, Ann, who was enthusiastic about creating things and even had a pattern for a crocheted dress and hat. Well, that was the start. The dolls were from Carnival Supply and were a cheap version of a Barbie doll, but we started dressing them, one by one. Another neighbor, Pat, saw us consulting over the backyard fence and asked what we were talking about. She also knew how to crochet and the three of us dressed the whole box. The dolls made a great showing on a shelf of our booth and were a big hit.

Now, 30+ years later, I no longer knit or crochet and do very little sewing, but one day daughter Laurie wants to learn crocheting so I go to my sewing area in the basement, dig out my crochet hooks and yarn, and what do I find but that same old doll dress pattern.

I start working on a dress for a Barbie doll, so the pattern has to be adjusted. I think back to Grandma Louveau and Mom’s sewing skills. Mom was always concerned about the fit of a garment over the shoulders. Grandma Louveau, when buying a new wool coat, a rare occasion, always checked the underside of the coat. The nap of the coat had to look as good as the top side so when the outside was too worn, the coat could be ripped apart and made into a coat for a child.

I still check the underside of a coat before buying, though I have no intentions of making a new one later. Just a force of habit!

I made doll clothes for daughters, granddaughters, and now I’m making them for the Greats. I am not too concerned about the fit after all these are for-4- and 5-year-olds. I have lots of beads and ribbon for trim and that will be noticed more than the fit. No doubt when I drop by their homes I will find the dresses on the floor and a naked doll laying nearby. I know little girls…I have been involved with them since 1955.

While rooting through my sewing supplies, I found an old pattern for crocheted potholders. The pattern is simple – cast 35 single crochets, go round and round and it will form into a rectangle and ends will meet. Sew together and it will make a nice thick potholder. Daughter Chris orders me cotton yarn from Joann’s fabric store and picks it up curbside. I make the potholders, give them away as gifts, and in a small way I feel productive during this long winter.

Life Is What You Bake It

On a down day, if you have the energy, go into the kitchen, look in your pantry, and providing you’ve got the necessary ingredients, bake something.

Due to the pandemic, I no longer grocery shop, but daughters keep me fairly stocked up, and I had the needed ingredients for Grandma Louveau’s cinnamon rolls. As I baked them, I was reminded of a long-ago memory. It was sometime in the 1930s and I was visiting at Grandma Louveau’s house. Aunt Vallie, Mom’s sister, was still living at home, not yet married. Grandma baked the cinnamon rolls and sent us up to the railroad crossing with a pan of rolls for a family living in a railroad car on the tracks. The car was on a side track to the main tracks where trains passed day and night.

I remember being told the husband worked for the railroad but I don’t remember how exactly my grandparents knew they were living there – perhaps the man or his wife had come to the house for water. While they could have hooked up to a train and left at any time, it seemed that they settled there for a bit.

I was only 5 or 6 years old, and while Aunt Vallie visited with the woman, who had two small children, I watched a train roaring by, frightening and very noisy, with only a screen in the door of the railroad car between us and the moving train.

Through the years I have baked those same rolls, usually around Christmastime.

Another French grandma, on my husband’s side, from Old Mines in Washington County, Missouri, made meat pie every Christmas Eve. Her name was Norah LaChance Portell. I have asked different French women from Old Mines – with the last names of DeClue, Boyer, Bequette, and none had ever heard of the meat pies, which were always made Christmas Eve morning and served after Midnight Mass.

When we were first married, Cliff gave me a bite of the pie, but I didn’t care for it and figured it was a dish you had to be raised on.

All through the years, until our own family got too large, we would have Christmas dinner at noon at my parents’ home, then we’d visit his parents who also had their dinner at noon. The food would be put away but the meat pies would always be sitting out for anyone to sample, and again, Cliff would head to the kitchen for a piece, but I always declined.

Years later, Cliff’s mother, Genevieve, was in the hospital on what would be her last Christmas. My father-in-law, Timan, asked me to make a meat pie so he could take her a piece. I was taken aback – he had four daughters who had grown up on the meat pie and who knew better how it should taste. But I loved Genevieve – we had always gotten along and she always gave me the impression that she would take my side over her son. A sign of a saintly mother-in-law, though I never put her to the test. So, I asked, “What’s the recipe?” He replied, “Oh, just cook, but don’t brown, a pound of Rice’s pork sausage and add some water and use a lot of pepper.” Huh?!

I gave it a try. When Timan took the pie to Grandma in the hospital, she took one bite and said it was too rich. Later, Timan, Cliff, and Cliff’s brothers gobbled up the rest of the pie – grease and all.

Now, about 50 years later, I’m still making meat pies on Christmas Eve morning, and our kids come in, as their father did, looking for a piece on Christmas day.

I can’t say I’ve perfected it since I’ve never known anyone who has ever made it, except Grandma Genevieve and Grandma Norah, and sadly, I never asked them for the recipe. Through the years, though, I’ve stayed with the same recipe, but I make 2 or 3 pies. I use two pounds of Rice’s pork sausage, cooked – but not browned, pour off the grease, add about two cups of water, and make a paste of flour and water to thicken. At Cliff’s direction – while he was close by at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and playing solitaire, I’d add two pods of crushed, dried red pepper.

Now, in December 2020, Cliff has been gone for four years and son, Ted, has been gone seven months, and Christmas was much different this year. I still made two pies and sent pieces home with those who stopped by for a short visit. I thought back on those strong French grandmothers as I baked and listened to the news of people refusing to wear masks and complaining of bar and restaurant closings. I remember how Grandma Louveau’s 19-year-old son died of the Spanish Flu. I remember Grandma Norah telling about going out in the early mornings with a bucket looking for water in the tiff (barite) holes in Old Mines. She had to be sparing with the drinking water that came from a common well, and used the water from the tiff holes for cleaning. And, then I remember the motto, “Strong women – may we know them, may we raise them, may we be them.”

[Note: I’ve learned that the French name for the meat pie is tourtiere and it originated in French Canada. A family researcher said the Old Mines French did not come from Canada, so I’m not sure how they adopted this tradition. Still, the basics of the recipe and the tradition of having it on Christmas Eve are the same. More information can be found here and here.]