Joyce Kropewnicki

Growing up at Tipton’s farm long before I turned eleven and we moved to the Swanson’s farm a quarter mile around the corner I remembered summer rain storms and winter snow storms.

One evening in the summer the rain just came down in torrents. The lightening crackled in the night’s sky. We always said to count once your see the flash of lightening to determine how close it was to you. If you counted one at the flash and then an immediate roar of thunder, it was close – really close. One of the days with lightening and thunder working together in quick cadence, my sister Nancy and Mom gathered at Nancy’s upstairs bedroom window to look up toward the end of our field where our Dad had gone in his pickup to turn off the irrigation well. The lightening streaked across the sky as thunder clapped too near by to not be frightened.

Dad had to climb down into the pump at that time to turn off the motor. Maybe turning if off helped keep the lightening from being attracted to the motor and shorting it out or worse yet blowing out it out causing a big repair bill. I could sense the concern as my Mom watched at the window with us. With all this lightening in the sky a man walking in the open field might be a target. You could sense her relief as we saw the pickup headlights coming back down the road toward the house.

Mom hurried down the stairs to help Dad out of his wet clothes. We really didn’t have waterproof clothing at the time in the early 1950’s. A canvas jacket, ball cap, coveralls and galoshes was about it. She was right there to help him strip out of his wet clothes happy to see him back from what we viewed as a dangerous mission.

We had storms over the years in Lakewood with lightening cracking across the dark sky and thunder clapping near-by. We would count from when the lightening flashed to when the thunder clapped just to see how it close it was. With most we could count to 5 or 10 before the flash so we thought the lightening was over a mile away. I don’t know who made up that un-scientific method to gage how far way the lightening was, but this little trick gave us some kind of Solis during the storms.

One evening, July 20, 2009, we had gone to bed about 10. The wind chimes tinkled softly and then in rapid clinks. The dog came to the edge of the bed in concern. We got up to see what was happening. In less then ten minutes the lights flash as the electricity went out. I stood by the shaking dog a few feet from the front living room window and watch the pea sized hail drive leaves sideways against the window. The roar of the hail storm was deafening, like a fright train roaring over our heads. With just force I was afraid the hail would break the window.

We all raced to the basement in fear a tornado was passing overhead. It was pitch black as the dog and I felt out way quickly down the stairs. Stan had gathered a couple of flashlights and was close behind. I picked a spot on the floor in front of the sofa not wanting to be in the laundry room where a tub could fall through the ceiling. The dog and I shook together as Stan scurried around checking the basement windows wells to make sure they weren’t filling too full from the deluge of rain and hail to flood the basement.

The hail was over about as quickly as it had started in 10 to 20 minutes as the roar of the storm subsided. We ventured out to the garage to see through the windows how much hail had fallen. About 5 to 6 inches was built up on the driveway. It was pitch black outside so you couldn’t see to well except for the brightness of the white colored hail. We went back upstairs with our flashlights. The back yard was eerie with fog from the cold hail on a warm summer’s night.

We saw neighbors with flashlights doing the same thing in their yards trying to assess the damage. We called a few just to make sure everyone was okay. All of our healthy summer flower planters were beaten to bruised sticks. No thick rows of mums this year fall. Tomato plants beat to shreds, along with the pole beans and zucchini plants that were just setting blossoms. Piles six to eight inches deep covered the lawn and sidewalk from the new growth tips from the spruce trees. We listened to KOA on the crank up emergency radio I had bought for Stan years ago. It seemed the storm had blown over us and moved to the south.

Nothing we could do about it in the middle of the night so we went back to bed. About one – am the power went back on and the emergency siren up the street started blaring. It had evidently been cut out when the power went out. Wouldn’t you think they would have a generator to back that up. When we called our daughter who lives about 3 miles away she said it was hailing there, but not too bad and the tornado siren was blaring. She still had power and was listening to the news about the storm.

We left for vacation the next day and didn’t really assess the damage until we returned a week later. The neighbor hood just ¼ mile away had taken a direct hit from the tornado that loomed overhead and spun off a microburst at 150 miles per hour of wind and hail. Our neighbors on those blocks lost 40 year old trees toppled like matchsticks. Windows were blown out like a flick of a finger on gossamer paper. The siding and bricks were pelted with the hail sized peas to as if shot from a gun. One of our favorite parks filled with 40 years old trees took a direct hit. The trees were uprooted or broken off like they were made of straw. No more shady walks through that open space for years to come.

I had gone to work the next day. Driving down 26th Avenue I could see just how bad the storm was and saw the breath of the storm damage along the way. When I go home that day some of the neighbors had crew of people cleaning up the debris on their yards. When we returned from vacation we got busy with our own clean up. The spruce tips the worst. The wind and hail had almost stripped our big old 40 year old tress bare. They were so lush and full before. Stan started the arduous task of bagging up the sappy spruce tips into 45 gallon thick construction grade plastic bags. One week the garbage took away 15 bags. Next week out went 29 bags. We had 10 bags of cottonwood leaves and many bundles of branches.

At least we have our trees still standing and the little flower planets are returning with some green sprouts.

One time probably in the 1960’s when a big old hail storm flared through Greeley in the summer, Dad’s crops got pelted almost to the ground. After the storm I remember riding in the pickup with him and Mom when we lived at the Swanson’s farm. The rain was flooding through the rows washing beaten crops down the waste ditch. Dad was devastated. All his labors for the year washed away in an afternoon’s hail storm. No crop insurance at the time so it was a full loss to him and the family. Farmers are the eternal optimists. Once the storms hit, they just assess the damage and determine if the crop will still set and corn will continue growing to harvest or plan for a better year next summer. The strength of that spirit keeps them farming in a positive light.

Our family was not really very good at beach vacations when I grew up. Mostly we visited relatives. Dad would load up the old Chrysler and drive on toward California up through Laramie, Wyoming so they could stop off and say Hi to Mom’s brother Daryle and his family. In one trip in the fifties I remember there were no Interstates to speak of. Just big old two lane highways that made passing a bear.

As I remember Dad did 95% of the driving. He would make a job of it driving 800 at least a day. There were no convenient rest stops along the highway so we had to scurry into the sometimes questionable gas station rest rooms. At that time gas stations didn’t sell cokes, Twinkies and chips, but sold their core competency – gasoline and service. Once you drove over the rubber tube the bell would alert the gas station attendant to hop to it and serve you. He would hurry out to greet you, flip open your gas cap and start pumping gas. While the gas was filling up all your windows would be washed, oil changed and a smile to boot.

Boy we have come a long way. Dad would get out of the car to chat with other folks getting gas and carefully watch that his car was being properly serviced. Then off we would go to the next stretch of highway.

We didn’t stop to see stuff much. Mostly just drove and drove toward our destination. We didn’t plan how far we could drive as this was a marathon after all. Mom would read the map and Dad would decide if we could make it to the next town and look for a motel. Places were seedy I’m sure by today’s standards of lodging. Dad would do the negotiating for price and Mom would check out the room for cleanliness before the deal to stay there was struck. We didn’t die of germs so I guess everything was reasonability acceptable.

One trip in the early 1950’s when I was under age 10 we went to California and stopped at Dad’s Aunt Freda and Uncle Elmer Johnson’s house in Pasadena. I think Uncle Elmer worked in the railroad. Aunt Freda was a housewife. They had lots of trees with the most beautiful flowers. Much different from the farm country in Greeley. Aunt Freda was a real trend setter. They had of all things a television. Of course, we didn’t have just an extravagance at that at our home in Greeley. The radio was the main stay.

I was mesmerized and haven’t stopped being glued to the TV set from that day forward. The TV was a big oak piece of furniture with a glass screen about a foot square. The picture was black and white. I enjoyed the children’s shows early in the morning. I’m sure Mom and Aunt Freda enjoyed having me quietly sit and watch it too. That was the big time with Ed Sullivan and Jackie Gleason. Not my Mom’s favorites, but we watched them as Dad liked them. I remember my Grandma, Anna, loved to watch boxing. Go figure.

We stayed in Aunt Freda’s guest room. My dad was a pretty hefty guy most of his life. He sat on the foot of the bed rail to put his shoes on and cracked the rail. He was so embarrassed for breaking the furniture due to his weight. I remember he tried to pay for the bed rail or repairs, but Aunt Freda would have nothing to do with that. He is probably still trying to pay from his grave.

Another highlight was going to Disneyland. This was about the first year it was opened. It was a delight to behold. I had my photo taken in front of a big ole whale with my goofy hat that went quack, quack. I still have the hat with my name embroidered on the back. There wasn’t the same branding push through the media as we have today as most families didn’t even have TVs yet and for sure the internet was just a dream to come some fifty years later.

Dad had some old silent movies he played for us at family gatherings. One of them must have been the original Mickey Mouse character totting around in a cartoon clip. He was one skinny mouse. Not the cute cuddly chubby mouse that we know today.

We probably went to the beach to stick out toe in and squish some sand between our toes while carrying our shoes walking along the surf.

When I married Stan my vacations to California changed to years of visiting various beaches along the coast. He grew up in New York and vacation to him involved beaches. Next week we are going to Cape Cod with our son’s family. His 10 month old daughter Anya has already learned the fun of sand in her toes and the salty taste of ocean water.

In our family we were taught that a penny saved in a penny earned. Along with that we learned that our parents money was theirs and not to be touched. My day, Harold, had a cup he kept on his desk for pennies. It was burnished copper with an Indian design etched on the outside of the cup and filled in with red. I wonder who has that cup now. The penny cup was about 3 inches across and about an inch and a half high. It probably held less than fifty pennies. My dad wasn’t really a desk type of guy as generally he worked outdoors doing farm things with the cows, fixing stuff in the shop or working in the fields preparing the soil for planting, then tending to the crops during the summer and finally harvesting in the fall.

When he worked at his desk mostly we didn’t bother him as he might have been concentrating on paying bills, as task I’m sure he disliked. But there were time when he worked at his desk when he whistled up a storm. Not really a tune, but just a happy melody he made up to keep his concentration. It was those time he might let you look at his penny cup and count the pennies.

We all collected coins in our own way. Mom was interested in the dates and where they were minted. She started me on a coin collection. She bought me some folders you could press the coins in that matched the dates and mint location. It filled up pretty good. I don’t know where I received my money as I don’t remember an allowance. Sometimes Aunts and Uncles gave us a dollar or five here and there for our birthdays. We were taught to save them all just in case. I could use that money to trade my parents for coins for our collection. That was really the only reason that Dad would let me look through his coins.

He also had a few silly toys in his top drawer of his desk that he used occasionally to show other children and entertain them when they visited. One of the items was a magic tube. It was black and had a glass top. There was some kind of triangular multi-sided bead that floated in black liquid. You would turn the tube with the glass side down and ask a silly question like “am I going to have a good day today?” Then turn over the tube. The bead would float to the top and you could read the answer, “It is decidedly so.”

Another game he had was a trick wooden box that hid a piece of gum. He had another wooden one with a red pointed round end that he snapped through his fingers to make something happen. I forgot what happened. He sure got a kick out of showing these to kids and tricking them.

For a while I saved my money in a glass jar that looked like an elephant sitting on his back legs. I think this jar had some kind of syrup in it when it was first purchased to may a Kool-Aid type mixture. It must have been used by lots of kids as it came with a slit in the screw on lid to save coins.

While riding the bus today I overheard a couple of young women who have young babies talking about diapers. One was talking about how easy the diapers today are to use. She mentioned that her mom had a diaper service for a year when her and her sister were first born. That was about 30 or more years ago when cloth diapers were all the rage. She explained how odd it was that diaper pins were used instead of Velcro. Her friend pointed out that Velcro probably wasn’t invented them. She replied, “They should have used tape then.”

My daughter Jamie just turned 42 on August 1, 2009. From my experience, cloth diapers with diaper pins were still the rage and mostly the only choice for her. You had regular diapers for daytime and heavy ones for nighttime. The diaper pail, even if you kept up with the laundry, still had that hint of ammonia smell. Folding diapers was a daily chore. The girl babies were folded a certain way to pad up the middle, while the boy babies had the bulk in the front. Rubber pants were snapped over the cloth diaper to keep everything in tack. I don’t remember Velcro being invented at that time nor were post-it notes or other snazzy adhesive products. It was mucilage and rubber cement for glue and snaps, buttons and elastic for fit. Scotch tape was just plan old cellophane crinkle tape with no special qualities that made it see through or double sided.

Paper diapers were invented about the time Jamie needed diapers in 1967, however due to the cost we only used them infrequently if we were going out for the day. At age two, when she was at daycare, I probably had to provide paper diapers as I can’t remember carrying home any wet cloth diapers. The paper diapers were different than what is used today. The paper was a thick strip of material that was laid into a plastic panty that snapped on.

By the time John came along in 1975, I still had a diaper pail in the nursery and used some of the same cloth diapers from Jamie. Old habits die slowly. We also used paper diapers more frequently. They had really improved and were in one piece with easy open sticky tape for a better fit.

In 2009, my little Granddaughter Anya uses paper diapers only. They are form fitting, collect all that is needed so no spills escape from the elastic legs.

Anya’s mom Rachel is sure missing a treat to use the old diapers as dishcloths or rags. That was really great sturdy fabric.

One day on facebook, a social networking website, my daughter-in-law, Rachel, asked this interesting question about what was the most awful summer job. I thought for a few minutes and then the job popped into my mind like a flash of light. I was taking summer classes right after my Freshman year in 1965 at Colorado State University (CSU) in Fort Collins. CSU is known for its veterinarian school. They had a farm and animals near-by that gave students an opportunity to learn things first hand. I answered an ad to work in a lab in the animal husbandry building. I didn’t pay much attention to what it was about at the time. The people were really nice and very smart. Most were working on PhDs or were trained micro-biologists testing out on various theories. My job was cleaning up the lab after they had worked all day. There were beakers and test tube to wash by hand and stack neatly back on the shelves for the next day’s experiences. I worked there for a while before they explained what they really were doing; resting bull sperm. So you can imagine my delight in learning that the test tubes, although rinsed out had carried samples of bull sperm. It sounds odd, but someone has to do the testing and at the time someone had to wash the test tubes. I’m sure now it is all automated. No more sinks full of tubes and beakers.

In the fall I changed jobs as my schedule changed. I worked in a steak house a block from the edge of campus. I would ride my bike during lunch over to the restaurant, serve up hamburgers and steak for a few hours and then back to classes. It worked out OK. I got good tips and they gave me lunch everyday.

My first job was working as a restaurant at Longs Peak Café in Greeley, I was probably between junior and senior high school. Longs Peak Café was the restaurant on the main street where my parents went to lunch right after church on Sundays. We mostly always had the same thing. Dad had Chicken Fried Steak. Mom probably had the same as did it. My brother Alan was such a pill when he ordered halibut. There was a children’s puppet type character on one of the shows I watch on TV. I think the puppet’s name was Haliburton (not the company). When Alan ordered his meal he always ordered Hailburton. I would have a big fit at the table, worried he would be eating my favorite childhood character. He loved to tease me that way. I’m sure my Mom wish he didn’t carry on so much.

Some Sundays’ at Longs Peak Café we meet our Grandparents there. They would sit in the back at the big booth where you have to scoot all the way around the table to crowd us all in. Grandpa would always order the chef’s steak. He was the only one who could order this as it was twenty cents more than anything else the rest of us ate. It seems meals were about $1.35 to $1.99 or so in the 1950s. Yummy thick creamy chicken soup chucked with vegetables were always included along with a salad with our families standard thousand island dressing, the meal with mashed potatoes and gravy, side of canned vegetables and dessert. My grandparents always went wild with a wine Sunday. Being tea tottlers that they were, this was not really wine, but some type of thick grape juice flavored topping on vanilla ice cream. I liked the cobbler which was a thick pie crust shaped cookie placed in the bottom of the dessert dish covered with blueberry or blackberry pie filling with a dollop of reddy whip squirted out of a can.

I begged and begged to work at Long Peak Café. My parents finally gave in. The place was owned by a Greek couple. Alex ran a tight ship. His wife taught me the rules. I learned plenty from the old time waitresses. Beatrice always had the good tables with the regulars including my grandparents. Vi was a skinny little thing who worked like a pistol and probably lived her life on the edge of poverty. Another gal, whose name escapes me, was from Evans. When she found out I had met her brother, she gave me a big lecture cautioning me about getting to know him any better. I guess I took her advise, but was surprised she would steer girls away from her brother. The other side of the table as a waitress was not the same as being served on Sundays as a customer.

My father must have had an interesting life in the early 1930’s before he married my Mom and became a farmer. Probably after high school he became a gold miner in Central City at the Gold Crown mine. My great Uncle Charlie, so it’s said, was a gold miner in Idaho who struck it rich when he found gold. I don’t think dad ever struck it rich with gold and they talked briefly about how some of the mines were salted. Owners were sprinkle some gold around the entrances of mines to make it appear that there was gold to build up the gold fever. In fact the mines didn’t have much gold or they were already clean out. It is just interesting to think that this straight-laced family would send their oldest son off to work in the mines and frolic in the salons after a hard days work. Maybe he didn’t do any frolicking for as long as I knew him he was a real family man earning a living and keeping us in food, clothes with a roof over our heads.