Ringing in the New Year With Remembrances of Aunt Emma Rainey Buckley

Whenever I write about my grandma, Gladys Rainey Smith, or any of her siblings, I recall what Velma Bowen Rainey said about them. She commented, "Grandma Rainey raised those kids on tiger's milk!"  Velma referred to characteristics such as an unchangeable determination, an indomitable spirit, an ability to succinctly convey an opinion,  and unwavering tenacity. The incredibly talented Rainey children's commitment to hard work coupled with their giftedness in many areas has enhanced and impacted our family for several generations.
Remembering Aunt Emma Rainey Buckley

The youngest daughter of Rosa Jarrell Rainey and William Marion Rainey was born on December 31, 1903 at Sacred Heart, Indian Territory. My maternal grandmother, Gladys Vivian Rainey Smith, at age three, welcomed her into the family. They named the New Year’s Eve baby Emma Maryann.  Her father selected her middle name after his own mother, Mary.

According to my grandma, Aunt Emma quickly became a favorite of her father. Grandmother related how Aunt Emma, as a sick little one, needed to take medicine. Her father, in his effort to entice Emma to take her medicine, illustrated how easy it was to swallow and ended up taking her medicine himself! That suited little Emma just fine.

As an older sister, my grandmother and AIice, another sister, thrived on teasing Aunt Emma. Aunt Emma always had many suitors. Alice and my grandmother teased her when they attended Woodland School in the Bend and Emma received a love note. The boy who didn't excel in spelling wrote a note to Emma referring to her as his “Humey” instead of "Honey." Even in her 70s, this same man enjoyed meeting her and visiting about days long gone as well as his agri-business.

Aunt Emma formed strong friendships when she stayed with the McInroy family in Fairfax to attend high school. She found employment at Big Hill Trading Company. She met and married Bill Buckley in 1929. More about their relationship can be read at the blog post link: http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-theater-manager-who-married-rainey.html

The death of her beloved husband forced my great-aunt to begin carving a new path for herself. Following her recovery from an emotional collapse, she and her niece, Hazel Rice Goad Guthrie, enrolled in Hills Business College in Oklahoma City. Coincidentally, my paternal aunt, Ella Gates Bledsoe, was studying at the same time at the same college.

Upon completing her coursework, she accepted a job with the United States Government Printing Office in Washington, D.C. Her new employment adventure propelled her into an entirely new venue and atmosphere. She attended worship services at the National Cathedral. Aunt Emma, with her newfound friends, toured each historical site in their leisure time. The couple of decades in social circles in the nation’s capital afforded her opportunities to enjoy the festivities of  presidential inaugural balls.

Aunt Emma Rainey Buckley with her friend, Elsie in Washington, D.C. Every

 photograph of Aunt Emma reveals her ramrod straight posture. She retained 

her elegant posture well into  her 90s. Even as children eating at her table, her

posture alone caused my sister and me to check our posture. When we stayed

with her as children, we always had a water glass and stemware for our drink 

with our lunch and dinner meal!

Two of the more memorable experiences I recalled from her reminiscences of her years in Washington, D.C. was Marion Anderson’s historic concert on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on Easter Sunday in 1939. Anderson had been denied permission to perform in Constitution Hall. Later in her career, this contralto extraordinaire overwhelmed an audience when she participated in a benefit concert in Constitution Hall in 1943. Aunt Emma was privileged to be a part of the momentous event!  

Aunt Emma Buckley worked at what is now the United States Government Publishing Office until her retirement. She had been buying the farm on which her mother, Rosa Jarrell Rainey lived. Her mother (my great-grandmother) died in 1953, and soon Aunt Emma retired to begin farming with her brother, Eugene Robert Rainey. After his death in 1961, she lived the remainder of her life by herself on the farm.

Aunt Emma transitioned from a urban life style with a full social calendar to raising chickens, planting a garden, and canning the garden produce she harvested. Her nephew, Virgil Rice, farmed her tillable ground for her. As she aged, he checked faithfully on her daily.

Aunt Emma was generous with her time and money. She gave of herself to help her sister-in-law, Pearl Rainey, care for her older brother, Lewis, the last few months of his life. She spent many nights with her oldest sister, Daisy Rainey Rice. Calvin and Gladys Smith, my grandparents, enjoyed shopping outings with her to Ponca City on a regular basis.

My love of music prompted Aunt Emma to underwrite my first piano lessons. She always expected a mini concert from my sister, Angie, and me when she was at our house. She and my mother fostered my love of classical music.

In her later years, many times I traveled the quarter-mile to her house from my parents’ farm or stopped by after school on Friday. We discussed current affairs, family news, fashion trends, our personal Bible study, and family stories from the past. That strong relationship led me to what no one else had the courage to do. Return a photograph. Let me explain.

Bill Buckley’s World War I photograph retained a prominent place in our home all during my early days. My inquisitive nature caused me to inquire why we had his photo in our home and Aunt Emma had no pictures of him in sight at all. A brief explanation of her difficulty with his death was told to me. I knew names of men smitten with her were bantered about for many years.  An engineer who remained a bachelor until his death – I discovered that in my research! A banker, a train conductor, and a successful farmer were just a few who were quite taken with her, but with each one, she countered with a respectful, polite response that indicated no interest on her part. 

Prior to my grandma’s death, when cleaning, I proposed a novel idea – give Bill Buckley’s photo back to Aunt Emma. Initially, every family member supported me from afar in that effort to return the heretofore unwanted portrait. To everyone’s astonishment, Aunt Emma accepted and displayed prominently the photograph she rejected over sixty years earlier. Evidently, this sophisticated lady with a brilliant business mind had come to accept her dear Bill’s death and embraced their brief marriage as a relationship that could never be matched even though she lived into her 90s. Years of heartache and loss had finally been replaced with fond memories of the love they shared.

Aunt Emma with me in February of 1957. I always admired her keen
                 business savvy and understated sense of style and have tried to emulate it.

Ralston's Tie With the Founding of Oklahoma Agriculture and Mechanical College

As I discussed the photo below with Wanda Rice Nix, at the Ralston Senior Citizens building where a copy of it hangs, she shared that James L. Mathews, an ancestor of Maxine Hines Rice* who is the mother of Wanda Rice Nix, Bob Rice, and Revae Rice Baugh, served on the search committee to select the site for the new college in Stillwater. I'm always amazed at how much I learn when writing a blog post! There is a book about James Langford Mathews that I hope to soon read. Here is a link to his obituary which includes a portrait of him: 

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=11736825 
A Surprising Connection Between My Mother and Oklahoma State University’s 125^th Birthday

                My mother, Bernyce Smith Gates, reminisced recently about her family’s friendship with the Bob Jarrell family. Bob Jarrell, a banker at the Bank of Commerce in Ralston in the 1920s, developed a close relationship with my mother’s parents. Bob and his wife, Bina, enjoyed spending time in the country with my grandparents.

Photo of the Ralston Bank of Commerce with J.O. Cales, A. D. Krow (possibly), Robert
 Jarrell, and Elizabeth_________(unsure of her last name.). The photo was in my grandmother's
 personal photograph collection.

                Occasionally, my grandparents, Calvin Callcayah and Gladys Vivian Rainey Smith, and my mother socialized with the Jarrell family in Ralston. One evening Bina Jarrell was going to serve my preschool-aged mother tiny sausage patties. My grandmother spoke up, “Oh she won’t eat any.” Predictably, Mother proceeded to eat most of the sausages to the horrified astonishment of my grandmother! (87 years later, Mother now recalls not really liking the taste that much but the miniature size certainly appealed to her!)

                The Jarrells’ older children were Ford and Virginia, both teenagers at that time. Billy, the youngest living child, often played with my mother since he was only three years older than her. True to form, my spunky mother sent the blood flying by whacking Billy in the head when he did something she didn’t like as they played together at the little house. (See the blog posting entitled Miracles at the Little House that published on July 20, 2014.) After tending to Billy’s cut, my grandmother corrected my mother’s behavior toward guests. It is mystifying that a banker and his wife would socialize with farmers who lived in such a tiny house.

                Bob Jarrell liked my mother’s maternal grandma, Rosa Jarrell Rainey, immensely. He swore they were related. Great-grandma Rainey insisted they were not. None of my research has found a connection between the two Jarrell families.

                One of Mother’s most memorable times with the Jarrells was a trip to Tulsa. Bob and Bina had invited them to spend time with them in a hunting lodge near Tulsa. On the trip to the hunting lodge, my grandparents' Model T Ford lost one of its tires. Mother recalled drivers they met pointed vigorously to indicate the location of the missing tire. Sure enough, the Model T's wayward tire had lodged between two sapling trees that were practically growing one on top of each other! This hardly seemed the transport of a family in the Roaring 20s that was “hobnobbing” with their banker friend and his family. Once they arrived at the hunting lodge, Mother was mesmerized by the heads adorning the walls and the enormous bearskin rug prominent on the floor.

                Before the stock market crash of 1929, Bob Jarrell took a position with a bank in the Tulsa area and the family moved. Coincidentally, Great-grandma Rainey lost all of her "nest egg" at one of the other banks in Ralston during the Great Depression.

                As I perused the Fall 2015 issue of STATE – The Official Magazine of Oklahoma State University, an article by David C. Peters entitled “Finding a Prairie Home" piqued my interest. The focus of the article centered on the series of events leading to the acquisition of land for Oklahoma  Agricultural and Mechanical College following its birth on December 25, 1890.

What a surprise to see the southwest corner of Oklahoma State University began originally as a portion of Alfred Jarrell’s homestead acquired in the 1889 land run! According to the article by Peters, the Jarrells received $50 for the 40 acres sold for the early day college. Alfred Edwin Jarrell, an older brother of my grandparents’ friend, Robert “Bob” Sanford Jarrell, graduated in the first class from Oklahoma A & M College. Both Bob and Alfred Edwin were sons of Alfred Jarrell who willingly sold part of his homestead to make the land grant college a reality for the young state of Oklahoma.
            What a neat connection between Mother's cherished memories of the Jarrell family and the Brightest Orange! 

Happy 125^th Birthday to my alma mater, Oklahoma State University! 

*To learn more about Maxine Hines Rice, access the blog posting about her at:
http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2015/09/green-stamps-free-washing-machine-and.html

The Gift That Forever Changed My Perspective

                I carefully peeled the tape from each end of the package. In those days, especially pretty wrapping paper was preserved to be reused. That explained the care in unwrapping. As I opened the box, I experienced a first in my life.

                In front of me, in the sturdy, recycled box, a beautiful evening gown for my Barbie doll was nestled in the tissue paper. A beautiful creation of white lace with a gold-edged lace rose accentuating the bodice stunned me. The gown was styled with the empire bodice that was the rage during that era of the 1960s. As I fingered the small creation, I could tell the underlay for the gown was of white muslin. Immediately, I knew this entire doll gown was handcrafted of scraps from the lace box and extra muslin from Grandma’s scraps of fabric. Even though the gift tag indicated it was from Grandpa and Grandma Smith, I knew she had made this gorgeous gift.

The doll dress that my grandmother, Gladys Rainey Smith
created for my sister's doll for Christmas.

                Grandma’s overwhelming success at surprising my sister and me astounded me. We were around the house most of the time other than our daily attendance in school. We never tried to snoop into our presents, but the two of us were perceptive to a fault about what the adults in our home were doing. Angie and I had not seen a pattern for doll clothing. Little did we know that Grandma had designed those dresses without a pattern, relying only on her uncanny designing talent and stitching wizardry.

                How had she managed time to sew these breath-taking creations for her two granddaughters’ dolls? December was a busy time for Grandma who seemed to delight in custom making our own Christmas dresses. She wanted us to have festive dresses for the Christmas program at church as well as the program at our school in Ralston. She stayed busy with Christmas baking, decorating around the house, and the everyday responsibilities on the farm. How baffling that she carved out time to fashion two miniature evening gowns for dolls that rivaled any doll outfits that we had longingly gazed at and wished for in the Christmas toy catalogs that year!

The vintage handcrafted evening ensemble for my doll.

                As I investigated further in the gift box from my grandparents, imagine the wide-eyed joyful response when I spotted a tiny red velvet jacket trimmed with glittery golden sequins. I recognized the red velvet as coming from the scraps of a Christmas dress she had sewn for my mother a previous year. Instantly, I knew Grandma had designed it to complete the evening gown ensemble. At that moment, no royal princesses living in opulent wealth could have been as happy as Angie and I were that Christmas Eve.

                That Christmas Eve marked the first time I vividly realized the time, effort, and love that was invested in gifts we received. From that Christmas forward, my gratefulness increased for each gift I received  - whether large or small. More importantly, after that gift created by Grandma, my focus shifted to recognize the thought that had been put into the gifts I received.

                In this era, when regifting is debated yearly, and over $44,000,000,000 of gift cards went unused in the United States from 2008 through 2013 (according to giftcardgranny.com), has gift giving lost its luster? Maybe every gift that is given this year will not rival the exquisite doll clothes made by our grandmother, but every gift recipient can take just a moment to contemplate the effort by the giver to give a welcomed gift. 

                My thoughts turned to the first and ultimate giver, God. His gift was planned from before the dawn of time according to I Peter 1:19-20. The costliness of the gift of His Son exceeded any Christmas gift ever given. When we receive the extravagant gift of His perfect Son, who came specifically to take our punishment, in exchange we are given a new beginning, even  though we are undeserving recipients of the life-changing gift of Jesus Himself. What a reason to celebrate! 

The Metamorphosis

    I wrote this following Dad's death but felt the grief, especially for my mother, was too raw and painful for her to read. She overheard my sister and me discussing it and wanted to read it.Several times she has mentioned how it captured the reality of Dad's passing. Then she asked when I was posting it. So I decided to post it this week.

The Unwanted Tissue Box

As my father’s health deteriorated, changes occurred. His eating time, with my assistance, increased from 45 minutes to 90 minutes as I urged him to swallow by massaging his throat. Dad tried with all his might to take in nourishment three times a day.

                His coughing and choking worsened and became more frequent, much to my despair. Each night I prayed for Dad to be strengthened. This prayer seemed to be going unanswered. 

The magnitude of this reality forced a tear from my eye. For uncanny, practical purposes, I managed to handle my inner emotional upheaval without tears. As I have aged, tears have led to excruciating headaches for me. Bottom line - I try to avoid tears.

I couldn't allow more than a tear or two to trickle from my eyes since I had to feed Dad that morning. Silently, I breathed a prayer for health, strength, and stamina so I could care for him in the best way possible.

I reached instinctively for a tissue from the box on the end table closest to Dad’s bed. With my back turned to his bed, I looked out the living room’s large window as I made a comment about the beautiful sunshine warming the autumn morning, hoping to hide any tears from him. Just at that point, I realized I had pulled the last tissue from the box. I spoke loudly so his impaired ears could hear me, since my back remained turned to conceal my emotions, “Dad, we’re out of tissue. I need to go get a new box in the north room so I can blow my nose. Ok?”

I scuttled to retrieve a new box of tissue and grabbed for one with blue water pools and droplets pictured on each side. Unsuccessfully, I tugged, finally, deciding to get the most available box. It had a beige background – far too mundane a color for an already depressing day.

As I carried the gloomy-hued box into the living room, I pressed out the opening, drew out the first tissue, and blew my nose, precariously holding the box under my arm. As I placed the new tissue box on the end table, the pattern on the box leaped off the dull background. Butterflies were scattered over each visible side of the tissue box.

A Butterfly from the Dull Tissue Box

My heart sank. The butterfly reminded me of change. Those butterflies all started as larvae or caterpillars. Then my mind rolled to a video I showed third graders to help them understand the metamorphosis of an egg into a caterpillar into a cocoon and finally transformed into a stunning butterfly. I recalled the narrator of the teaching video mentioning the pupa (cocoon) appeared to have no life in it as it remained perfectly still just before its transformation.

I consciously shook my head. That "metamorphic" thought resounded too closely to Dad’s present reality. Dysphasia, shallow breathing, and increased hours of sleeping by Dad mimicked in my mind the later life of the pupa.

The scripture verse came to mind from 2 Corinthians 4:16 – So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.

It was obvious that my father’s body was weakening. I continued to pray for him but added the prayer for his inner self to be strengthened. Since Dad had his faith in Jesus, he had an inner self indwelt by the spirit of God Himself. (The Bible repeatedly indicates a person who has not committed to follow Jesus is dead in sins. There's nothing to be strengthened.) I realized the new way to pray. My prayer became an expression of Ephesians 3:16  I pray that out of His glorious riches He may strengthen you with power through His spirit in your inner being.

 As difficult as it was to admit, just as the butterfly in the cocoon was strengthened until it developed to a point to emerge as a gorgeous butterfly, so God was strengthening Dad’s inner being. He could not express verbally to us of his renewed inner strength, but by faith, we could trust that God was accomplishing this for him.

The moment he took his final breath, his inner being strengthened with power through His spirit left behind the empty cocoon, his weakened body. The metamorphosis had been completed.

Each of us who has trusted Jesus has His power within us. May we pray to be strengthened in our inner beings with our greatest desire to have His power at work in us to live for Him. Scripture bears out the end result is peace, that inner calmness even in trials. Then when our time to “emerge from the cocoon” comes, we will welcome the metamorphosis.

Butterfly on the Unwanted Tissue Box

When Cotton Was King

                About fifty years ago, almost every farmer in the Big Bend grew cotton.  At that time, most of the work was done by hand from hoeing the weeds that sprang up among  the young plants and  "blocking"(thinning) the young plants to increase productivity to pulling the heavy, canvas sacks to collect the mature cotton that was “picked” in the late fall.

                Edmund Gates, Jr., my father, raised a few acres when I was a child. Always a practical man, Dad used the new Dodge Ram car to pull a trailer loaded with harvested cotton out of the field! My mother voiced opposition to its use  - unsuccessfully.

                Once the cotton was harvested, it was taken to Ralston to the cotton gin owned and operated by Gilbert Morris aka Junior. He began its operation when he moved his family from the Big Bend into Ralston in 1957. Farmers hauled in cotton from miles around to the gin in Ralston.

My father, Edmund Gates, Jr., posing in front of cotton bales. The photograph was
taken in 1963 by a couple from Colorado who were traveling through Oklahoma.

Gilbert "Junior" Morris with his trademark smile.
(Junior's younger daughter, Pam, was in Mrs.
Akers' 3rd grade group when I was in 2nd.)

The Morris family had lived on the place now owned by my mother, Bernyce Smith Gates. The Morris family lived in a four-room house that is now a storage building on Mother's farm. My parents purchased the farm from Gilbert “Gib” Morris, Junior’s father in 1959.

My father and LaRene Bernet Akers at my parents'
               60th wedding anniversary celebration in March of
               2008. Photograph by Catherine Marie Gates Leforce.

LaRene Bernet Akers taught a combined classroom of second and third graders.  A combined classroom was one financial strategy used by rural schools to stretch the educational dollar. Much to my delight, I studied in her classroom for both second and third grades. She began each morning with singing and musical movement activities. Those few minutes of music set a positive tone that carried me, as a little music lover, through the rest of the day.

Mrs. Akers planned a field trip to the cotton gin owned by Junior Morris. What a fun, educational opportunity she created for us! Junior Morris seemed pleased to answer patiently our questions. He had a genuine interest that we learn as much about cotton and the gin as our little minds could comprehend. He had known most of our parents longer than we had! The welfare of each child in the community mattered to him.

                In small communities, the residents realized their interdependence on one another. When a siren sounded, the town’s citizens began asking, “Who? Where? and Why?” At some time, each resident relied on someone else in the area for one reason or another.

                A few years after Dad sold his cotton to Junior at the cotton gin, the two of them began “pounding nails” together. For many years they combined their creative talents to custom-build homes.

Junior Morris and my father preparing to deliver
Christmas baskets in 1992.

                John Donne wrote in the early 1600s, “No man is an island.” A small community understood this philosophy. If a person harmed his neighbor, he harmed himself. When someone helped another resident, she built up the entire town. A strong community almost innately recognized a lifestyle of caring and giving benefited the whole population. Although many years have passed since cotton was king in this part of Oklahoma, people living today who retain and follow a similar attitude of Junior Morris, LaRene Akers, and my father will experience a satisfaction and peace with neighbors and friends and more importantly, an inner satisfaction and peace within themselves.

Thanksgiving in the 1970s

                 My sister, Angie Gates Bradley, and I were blessed as children to celebrate many holidays with both sides of our family. My maternal grandparents lived with us. My father's parents lived west of our farm just a few miles.

                 We enjoyed Thanksgiving and Christmas lunches usually with my paternal grandparents who lived only a few miles from our farm home. Their tiny house bulged with my extended Gates family members. Before my family arrived for lunch, the hunters in the Gates family had already been out for many hours. Often cousins matched up against each other for a fun game of football or outdoor activity to work off all the turkey, dressing, and outrageously high-caloric desserts. Professional football games blared from Grandma’s small television with over a half-dozen pairs of eyes trained on the tiny screen. The family storytelling appealed to me most. After several hours of mesmerized listening to stories I’d heard many times, sprinkled with frequent chuckles, my family said our good-byes and traveled east a few miles to Aunt Daisy’s home.

Daisy Rainey Rice with Wanda Rice Nix, her
oldest granddaughter.

Great-aunt Daisy Rainey Rice was the oldest sister of my grandma. We enjoyed the evening meal at Aunt Daisy’s home with my maternal grandparents.Since my mother was an only child, her parents celebrated the entire day with Aunt Daisy’s family. 

Many of Aunt Daisy’s children, her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were there. The farmhouse shook with the spirited conversation and cheerful laughter.

Bernadean Gates, Ruby Martin Rice, Vickie Rice
Cabell, and Dean Rice Littlestar

Aunt Daisy’s son, Elmer Rice, and my grandfather, Calvin, instigated a lively discussion of politics whether it was an election year or not. As one can imagine, the two of them agreed on most issues.

Wanda Rice Nix, Calvin Callcayah Smith, my maternal grandfather, Virgil Rice,
the youngest son of Daisy Rainey Rice, and Edmund Gates, Jr., my father.

Recently, a relative reminded me that she received a warning that my grandma, Gladys, was coming. Grandma engaged a person in a religious discussion; actually, she required an accounting of how the person’s relationship with Jesus was. As a result, relatives sometimes “dodged” her. Only later after having entered into a vibrant relationship with the Lord, the same relatives were some of Grandma’s biggest fans.

Maxine Hines Rice, Gladys Rainey Smith, my 
maternal grandma, and Helen Foust Rice.

I never recall sitting at a proper table at either of these family celebrations. I dined at the kids’ table for many years. As I aged, I ended up sitting occasionally at a TV tray. Neither home had Thanksgiving-themed stoneware or china, sterling silver serving trays, or beautifully cut crystal glassware. I never remember coordinated cloth tablecloths and napkins.  The aroma ambiance of these older farmhouses derived not from the latest potpourri or candles, but mouth-watering baking scents wafting through the rooms of both homes. 

Hazel Rice Goad Guthrie, Yvonne Goad Kelly, and
Robert "Bob" Rice.

The Thanksgiving celebrations centered on intangibles such as collective thankfulness for a strong family held together by an unbreakable bond forged by common ancestry and resilient love. They knew a family could never allow the peripheral – food, tableware, activities, or even conversation topics– to interfere with the solid relationships unique only to that particular family.  

Tom Cabell recalled meeting "Grandma Rice."
Her granddaughter, Vickie, introduced them and
Daisy asked Tom if he worked. He responded,
"Yes, I do." She then asked, "Do you farm?" to
which he answered, "No." Her reply was, "You
don't work." It takes a tough skin to get into
some families!

God has richly blessed the Gates, Rainey, and Rice families. May we make deliberate choices to interact daily with love for our families on earth and so mirror the love in the family of God.  The Apostle Peter instructed in I Peter 4:8 from The Message:

  Most of all, love each other as if your life depended on it. Love makes up for practically anything.

Aunts and Nieces

Parallel Friendships

Mary Elizabeth Gates Roberts - My Mother
recalled Mary's generosity to allow my father
to repeatedly use her new car when he was
dating her. Mary's car easily outclassed the
older pickup truck that he had.

                November 17 marks the 99^th birthday of Mary Elizabeth Gates Roberts. Aunt Mary was the second daughter born to my paternal grandparents. She was three years older than my father, Edmund Gates, Jr. She completed grade school at Woodland, the country school in the Big Bend community. Many girls, especially living in a rural area in that era, concluded their formal schooling; however, my grandfather, a strong proponent of education, brokered a deal with A. C. Hightower for Mary to live with his family in Fairfax, Oklahoma, and attend high school at Fairfax High School. The men agreed upon an amount for her room and board with her assisting Mrs. Hightower with household chores.

Mary in the car that
she couldn't back up!

                Mary formed a friendship with the Hightowers’ older daughter, Margaret Jane, known to her family and friends as “Janie.” Janie’s outgoing personality meshed with Mary who was quiet and reserved. Mary graduated from FHS in 1934 with Janie receiving her diploma in 1935.

                The two friends went their separate ways with Mary training as a beautician and working in that profession until her marriage to Marion Roberts in 1942. My father told of Mary driving from Arizona where her husband was based in World War II without being able to drive in reverse! He recorded this account in the retelling of his experiences as a B-17 crewman in the book, Okie Over Europe published by his nephew and namesake, Daniel Edmund Newland.

                Janie attended Hills Business College and then was employed in various positions in Fairfax, including working for her father in his grocery store. She moved to Washington, D.C. and worked for the F.B. I. in its identification department from 1941 until 1946. She married Albert Phillippe in 1946.

Margaret Jane Hightower Phillippe

                Aunt Mary and her husband lived abroad in many countries, including the Phillipines and Tripoli, Libya, because of his career in the United States Air Force. Janie never lived outside the United States, but she and her husband traveled extensively in Europe, Asia, and South America.

Both Mary and Janie loved music. Mary enjoyed playing the organ in her home, often accompanied by her husband on his harmonica. Janie continued taking piano lessons well into her seventies.

The similarity in these two friends continued in their love of painting. Mary’s granddaughters have cherished paintings, representative of their grandmother’s talent and artistic ability. Janie’s art classes and painting with her friends remained a high priority even as she advanced in years.

                Janie’s niece, Debbie Sue Hightower Ballinger, and I don’t remember not knowing each other. We began a strong friendship in first grade that lasted into high school. Even though we parted ways for our collegiate careers, we "had a blast" living next door to each other in West Bennett Hall for one semester at Oklahoma State University.

Debbie asked me to be her maid of honor at her wedding to Christopher Ballinger in 1980. Our friendship remains stronger than ever. We share prayer requests and keep in touch even though we live in two different states.

Debbie and I on her wedding day.

Debbie and I during one of those hilarious
study sessions.

                My dad would often say when Debbie came to “study” at my house during our high school years, “You girls are sure having a lot of fun. You laugh all the time.” We did and we still do. Almost any time we get to visit, we have several moments when we share hearty laughter together. 

         The scripture says, “A merry heart does good like a medicine.” Countless studies and articles promote this same line of thought. Hopefully, each reader has an enduring friendship like Aunt Mary and Janie Hightower Phillippe and one full of laughter as Debbie and I do. 

The Broken Limb of the Tomato Plant

Support the Weak

                Hubert Hutchens gave me four tomato plants that he raised from seeds. Four plants were about my limit for gardening this year. Dad’s care took priority over all other usual chores and activities on the farm.

                With consistent watering, the tomato plants began to thrive. I battled tomato worms, but the plants soon were blooming and producing tiny green tomatoes.

                I don’t remember how or why. I only remember the morning I went out to feed the cats and discovered the broken limb. I was heartsick, but purposed to try to intervene in this gardening catastrophe.

                I tried to bolster the limb the best I could with a tomato cage. Soon I glimpsed tiny green tomatoes on the broken limb. At that moment, I determined to do all I could to bring those little immature, green tomatoes to maturity. My eyes fell on the heavy weight for the cellar door. What a perfect support for these tiny tomatoes! (A more seasoned gardener would never have resorted to such a measure.)

                Then just this week I picked the first ripened tomato sustained by the cellar door weight instead of its broken limb. My! It tasted delicious.

 

                Frequently, I encounter broken people. In reality, we are all broken in one way or another. Of course, Jesus said he came to heal the brokenhearted when He read from Isaiah 61:1-2 in His first public appearance in the synagogue(worship place) in his hometown. Paul gave us the example of himself. He used the phrase, “Support the weak” in Acts 20:35.

                Isn’t that what we should do? Just like the cellar door weight, we who have more maturity in following Jesus have a great responsibility to uplift and support the weaker or less mature person. A couple of reminders are needed. The weight of the cellar door was required for an extended period. Supporting someone is an ongoing project. A consistent bearing up of the broken limb was needed. Spasmodic interest in strengthening a weaker individual results in ineffectiveness and leads to more disappointment in the person’s life. Just as the cellar door weight served as a constant, consistent support for the broken limb’s tomatoes, a mentor provides ongoing, reliable guidance insuring growth and maturity to bring the jeopardized person to a beautiful realization of goals and dreams. This results in a peaceful, contented life for both individuals.

                If God has brought into your life a person needing your support, begin by faithfully praying for that person each day and asking Him to give you wisdom in how He wants you to provide support. Patience and commitment to the person is required. Unlike the cellar door weight, change will occur in you, too.

All Veterans Are Worthy of Honor

Recently, I began delving into my paternal grandmother's ancestry. I discovered a Civil War veteran. Military records sometimes reveal something different than we may anticipate.
Remembering Horace Baron Tripp

Horace Baron Tripp was born on November 13, 1830 (or 1831, depending on which record one consults) in Newry, Maine to Alvan Baron Tripp and Almira Carter Tripp. Newry is located in Oxford County in Southern Maine, within 20 miles of the New Hampshire boundary.

Horace married Elizabeth Wood. Their first little son, Rufus Tripp, was born on April 6, 1858, in Illinois. Rufus was my maternal grandmother’s father. To view a photograph of him, see the blog posting entitled One of the Hardest Things for a Little Girl to Do that appeared on September 8, 2013.

In 1863, James Preston Tripp was born to Horace and Elizabeth. His tombstone can be seen on this link: http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=pv&GRid=83441188

My great-great grandfather, Horace Baron Tripp, served in the Union army during the later days of the Civil War. According to his military records, he was a farmer living  in Lima, Illinois. On March 3, 1865, this 34-year-old brown-headed, hazel-eyed father of two signed up at Quincy, Illinois, for one year of military service with the Illinois Infantry. My father was the shortest of the Gates brothers who lived to adulthood. Yet at 5’8, he would have towered over Horace, his maternal great grandfather, whose height is listed as 5’3 at the time of his induction!

The final entry in his military record is – Died August 13, 1865 at Little Rock, Arkansas of disease. This young husband and father left his family to serve in the Union Army for one year. Yet Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox, Virginia, a little over one month after Private Horace Baron Tripp mustered into the Illinois infantry.

In the days when the snail mail of today was the quickest method of communication, it is unlikely that Elizabeth or Little Rufus knew that he was lying deathly ill in a Union Army camp in the Confederate state of Arkansas. Baby James was too young to know. The thought of leaving his little family behind in a vulnerable situation must have plagued his thoughts as his weakened body battled disease in the heat of summer.

Then in my mind, I transition to the turn of the century, late October of 1900, as Little Rufus all grown up with a wife, Nettie, and three little girls of his own, lay dying of kidney failure. Thirty-five years earlier, he was the only child old enough to comprehend that his father’s death meant he would never come back. What a painful irony that his oldest daughter, my grandmother, Mamie Irene, was the only one of his daughters who could understand the permanent impact of his fatal illness. Perhaps since he was unable to tell his own father good-bye, he called Grandma to his bedside for that very purpose. Heartsick, he realized his precious little Mamie would have to grow up without a father just as he had, but at least, the two of them could have a parting moment full of love for one another – a parting that my grandmother would remember into her nineties.

One may infer that Horace never fought in a battle or saw much action as a soldier: nevertheless, although his service was ended abruptly by disease and not as a result of combat, he had the heart of a soldier and deserves to be honored.  As we begin November, anticipating the observance of Veterans Day, let us remember all veterans who served honorably--no matter the role they played or their length of service. 

The entry to the Little Rock National Cemetery where Horace Baron Tripp is buried
in Section 1, Site 637. (Note - His death is incorrectly listed as October 27, 1865,
on the findagrave.com site.)

Delores Dean Rice Littlestar

      According to my grandmother's family records, Delores Dean Rice was born on October 27, 1932 in Belford west of Ralston. This darling of her mother probably earned that recognition since she was the last baby to be born to Ernest and Daisy Rice.
     "Dean" as she came to be known, was Daisy' s daughter but had the fire of her aunt, Gladys Rainey Smith, my grandmother. She was creative like my grandma since she trained her little blind dog to clean under the kitchen table, lessening  Dean's need to sweep with the broom!

Delores Dean Rice - the most serious
I ever remember seeing of Dean. The
earliest photo of Dean in Grandma's
vintage photograph collection.

     Her musical talent appeared in the blog posting entitled When the Little Brown-Eyed Durgan Lived With My Grandparents. It was published last year on November 9. Singing three-part harmony was quite a feat for a sixth grader! Once again here is the similarity with her aunt, my grandmother, because Grandma was a note-perfect alto singer.
     She married Al Littlestar, a tall, handsome young man of Osage descent. Dean has an out-going personality much like Grandma. Both Al and my grandpa, Calvin Callcayah, also of Native American descent - Cherokee, would be considered reserved compared to Dean and Grandma.
     Grandma did much nursing pro bono during the Great Depression and World War II. As soon as Dean was old enough, Grandma discovered that Dean enjoyed going to assist her with caring for the sick in the community. From that point on, the twosome headed out on many medical adventures in the Big Bend.
     This desire to reach out and help others continued when Dean and Al moved from the Bend. She loved to entertain. An amazing account in her life involved friends from Texas coming to visit Dean and Al in Colorado. Shockingly, the couple's baby arrived early, but the couple had to return to Texas. So who visited the preemie every day? Dean Littlestar delighted in checking on that little one until the joyous day of discharge came.

Gary, Delores Dean, Al, and Mark Littlestar in 1978.

     Dean recently told me one of her sons asked about the origin of the family's legacy of faith. Dean replied, "Aunt Gladys - she made sure we were in the community Sunday School and church." Grandma was pushy with her faith much to the disgust of those who didn't share her love of the Lord.She was an aggressive believer in Jesus and His impact on her life. Seemingly, she felt she had lost the first thirty years of her life since she did not commit her life to Him until her father's death just prior to her thirty-first birthday.
     Dean continues to minister to women through prayer groups and Bible studies. Being a cancer survivor has caused many hurting women to listen to her witness for Christ and ask for her prayers.

My mother, Bernyce Smith Gates, and Delores
 Dean Rice Littlestar enjoying the Burbank High
 School Reunion in the summer of 2008.

Happy Birthday to Dean, the niece who is more like her aunt than her own mother!

Reflection on Bees, Butterflies, and Marigolds

Psalm 119:103 How sweet are Your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!

Persistent butterfly and the tenacious bee as seen near our tomato plants.

For several days, I noticed a bee and tiny butterflies on the marigolds planted near the four tomato plants that Hubert Hutchens gave us. He had raised them from seed so they were very healthy. The tomato plants were planted in containers.

Most of the marigolds were planted in the poor soil of the bed where the tomato plant containers are. Actually, the soil is shallow with some cement under a few areas of the soil. (That definitely explains why I practiced container gardening for my tomatoes!)

The marigolds have nectar that attracted bees and butterflies. These tiny insects diligently sought the sweet substance from the marigolds that grew from my "2 packets for $1" seeds.

How like God's word is the nectar from the marigolds! The sweet, appetizing nectar attracted the bees and butterflies. As I reflected on these intent insects, I remembered that nectar is considered sweeter than honey. What an illustration from God's creation to desire His word above all else! The psalmist says God's word is sweeter than honey and yet He showed me those little butterflies and that tenacious bee were vigorously seeking out the nectar of the marigolds that according to entomologists exceeds the sweetness of honey.

The nectar is essential for bees to create honey. The butterflies needed the nectar for their very existence. Only when we realize the necessity of daily reading or ingesting the Bible will we truly live a meaningful, worthwhile life, Look and learn from the bee and the butterflies.

Oh Lord, make my desire for Your scriptures mirror the voracious bee and the tiny butterflies craving the nectar of the marigolds. May I yearn for Your Word as the sweet nectar desired by the insects.

One of my many sightings of the determined insects. Oh to have their drive 

in our commitment to study God's Word consistently!

Benders at the Tulsa State Fair in 1930

As the Tulsa State Fair is in full swing, this seemed the perfect time for this posting since it is about the fair 85 years ago!

                During the first half of the 20^th century, the Big Bend was comprised of two communities and school districts. Belford School had the smaller school population while Woodland, on the western side of the Big Bend, “always had more kids” according to my mother, Bernyce Smith Gates. It is almost unfathomable to realize that Belford at its zenith had around 80 students, with Woodland boasting a student body of around 100. In a rough calculation, I figure that the Big Bend’s population exceeded 200 easily in the late 1920s and early 1930s!

                My mother and her parents lived on the east side of the Bend – Belford community. My grandmother relished being active in the community and getting as many others involved as possible. She prided herself on producing the best of the best in anything she attempted. Most of the time, my grandfather supported her - although sometimes begrudgingly since she was a workaholic and an overachiever.

 In the late summer of 1930, my grandparents took the Belford Agriculture Display to the Osage County Free Fair. The display exhibited various grains and crops grown at that time in the Big Bend. Grandma had the vision of how it should look and Grandpa helped her make it a reality. The Belford display won first place, so my grandparents with my mother, aged 5 (almost 6), in tow, packed and headed to the Tulsa State Fair.

                The Osage County Extension agent, Fred Ahrberg, assisted my grandparents, Calvin Callcayah and Gladys Vivian Rainey Smith, in preparing for their state display. Mother recalls that Mr. Ahrberg located a mechanical attention-getting doll to create even more interest in the Belford Agriculture Display. The little mechanical professor who moved his teaching pointer served as a eye-catching prop, attracting state fair goers.

This photograph was in the 1931 Osage County Free Fair program that Grandma had saved in her
keepsake box. This display had won in 1930. As Dad would say, "Benders can compete with the best of them."

                Mother did an obligatory displays walk-through. Grandma always valued learning so I am sure she encouraged my mother to learn as much as she could from the innovative booths. Mother zipped through the county displays in the building where the Osage County booth was. She was a bored little girl and looking for some action!

When quizzing Mother about her attendance at the Tulsa State Fair 85 years ago, the subject of livestock entries came up. Her reply to me indicated a low interest level in this area of the fair. Her exact quote at aged 90, “You’ve seen one cow, you’ve seen them all. I could see cows all day long when I was back home.”

Her keen interest was sparked by the midway rides. To my amazement, she rode all the rides, except the ferris wheel, by herself! Recently, we heard a report on the noon news from a Tulsa television station that a bracelet could be purchased for $75 that would enable children to have unlimited rides on all midway rides (except one) for the entire eleven days of the 2015 Tulsa State Fair. With her dry sense of humor, she exclaimed, “I would have been a Dizzy Lizzy because I would have ridden those rides all day long!”

My independent mother at age 5 (almost 6) rode as many rides as she could or as frequently as she could get the nickel or dime. In 1930, each ride was paid for individually. Less than one year after the stock market crash of 1929, the nickel and dime were hard to come by from her parents. She admits that she probably rode more rides than most kids that year because she was an only child.

In our present day, when a child is old enough to comprehend who a stranger is, the concept of “Stranger Danger” is drilled into each little one’s mind! Yet my mother ran around the midway willy nilly, riding the rides at her own discretion by herself, while her parents manned the Osage County booth. What a different world we live in!

Mother even admitted to getting lost frequently on the fair grounds. She indicated, in that era, only rich families feared kidnapping and glibly spouted, “We were so poor that me getting kidnapped wasn’t a worry.” Very seldom was it heard that sexual predators or such kidnapped children. To return to her parents, she would merely ask an adult or those who operated the rides to direct her to the “building with the booths” and she would calmly meander back.

It was such a different day and time. Mother said they slept on pallets right there in the pavilion where the award-winning booth was. The only fair food Mother remembered was the pink cotton candy. Her mother provided their food while there, primarily sandwiches. No fried-whatever-on-a-stick for them!

Often people ask about my mother's condition, at almost aged 91. Most know she managed to prepare Dad’s special foods, carefully calculating the protein grams, pureeing, and straining every bite he ate. She did a terrific job in loving and caring for Dad for 67 years of marriage. He readily nodded when I asked, "Is she the boss of you?"
            Mother is “scary smart” with a mind that never stops.* God has graciously blessed us with her. Happy 91st Birthday to Mother on October 17th.

* I wrote this before Dad's death. The evening I wrote this,  Mother was the one who noticed and troubleshot until she convinced me to call Ben, my brother-in-law, who walked us through how to get Dad’s oxygen machine working again!

The Best...

Edmund Gates, Jr.
June 15, 1919-October 3, 2015

        As I write, I am sitting by my father as he laboriously breathes. Mother has  told him he was the best husband. Angie and I have told him he was the best dad and recounted what a giving father he has been. The three of us have agreed that the congenial, warm person viewed by the public was also the person Dad was at home.
       Over the past days, precious neighbors, dear relatives, and a former pastor and his wife have come and shared with Dad what a blessing he has been in their lives. Prayers of thankfulness for the godly impact he has had with his life have been offered by his bedside.
       Yet we are facing death square in the face, and the grim reaper image in no way conveys the actual viciousness of death. Early this evening, we reflected on the soul-sapping experience of watching life wrung out of this man we dearly love. I reached for the scriptures, locating I Corinthians 15:26 that states "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."

       Then I continued in that chapter to verses 54-57 that reads:

So when this corruptible shall have put on in corruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written,
Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength of  sin is the law.

But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through Jesus Christ our Lord.

       What we are facing is the excruciatingly painful "sting" of death, but Dad, after returning from World War II, made a commitment to trust Jesus as his Savior and Lord. For that reason, because of his life-altering faith in Jesus, Dad will have the ultimate victory over death. 

      Paul concludes that chapter with verse 58 to those of us who remain:

Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, inasmuch as ye know your labor is not in vain in the Lord.

How important it is for us to do all we do in the Lord. If every action we do is motivated by our "steadfast, unmovable" commitment to Him and not by pride nor to earn right standing with Him, He will be honored and it won't be "in vain."

If we have a firm trust in the Lord Jesus, when our time to die comes, our loved ones can sing as I did tonight the old hymn dating back to 1860 :

My latest sun is sinking fast, 

My race is nearly run,

My strongest trials now are past,

My triumph is begun

 O come Angel band,

Come and around me stand!

O bear me away on your snowy wings

To my immortal home!

O bear me away on your snowy wings

To my immortal home!

Then this seldom-heard verse that provided comfort and strength:

O bear my longing heart to Him

Who bled and died for me;

Whose blood now cleanses from all sin,

And gives the victory.

       May these scriptures and song lyrics provide inner peace and courage as we honor and emulate with our very lives a man who so greatly impacted many.

This post was written in the wee hours of October 3, 2015.