Experiencing Nature in Warren County, Indiana 3

On a sunny April Saturday when I was in high school, I had been disking for my father. My International 560 tractor needed gasoline, so I drove from the fields back to the house. I pulled alongside the elevated gas barrel, switched off the engine, spun off the gas cap, and began filling. The day was hot and still. Even the birds were taking a break from their hectic springtime schedule. With the tank full, I hung the hose on its iron saddle and thought about returning to my disking.

Rough Weather Ahead

Drawing by W. Hamilton Gibson (1850–1896)

Engraved by F. S. King (1848–1936)

In The Closing Scene

Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott Co., 1887

My father and my brother were working with tractors in adjacent fields about as far from the house as they could be. Would they miss me for fifteen additional minutes? I decided they would not, so I strode to the house and stretched out on the sofa for a quick nap.

Naturally, I lost track of the time. Imagine my surprise when my brother and my father noisily entered the living room! They were talking loudly with considerable animation. In my half-asleep state, I felt they were angry with me for shirking my responsibility. My sense of guilt helped me awaken fully. Then I realized they were not speaking about my indolence; rather, they were discussing the funnel cloud that had just crossed near the north end of our farm.

I sat up and listened to their description of the funnel, which began to touch down but lifted immediately. I glanced at the clock. I had slept for less than an hour. In just that length of time, the skies to the west had darkened, and a storm had approached. On its path from southwest to northeast, the blue-black cloud mass had passed on an angle a little over a mile north of our house. Acknowledging the dangers of lightning, my father had signaled my brother to bring his tractor and plow up to the house while my father drove his tractor and corn planter up to the barn. When they entered the barnyard, they witnessed the funnel’s descent.

I had slept through the excitement. And I was disappointed! In my late teens, I had wanted to spot a tornado. (I do not want to see one now.) Had I not tried to sneak in a nap, I could have watched the formation of a funnel, however briefly. A few years later, deadly tornadoes struck. I was in college. I drove home on the weekend after the massive tornadoes, and my father and I toured the damage. I remember two-story farmhouses missing walls so that they looked like oversize dollhouses. Most impressive was a mile-wide swath cut through a woods. Stripped of their bark, trunks of large trees lay where they were mowed down. My cousin’s house was destroyed. My father and I collected large balls of metal from the north end of our farm. Metal roofing and siding had been loosely rolled and tossed aside. Our buildings sustained no damage, but I had to walk down the country road to our neighbor’s house to collect the chairs that had been sitting on our front porch.

In my experience, the most severe storms always traveled on a diagonal line to the north of our farm. I wondered what factors determined their course. To me, the annual threat of tornadoes made life on the prairie seem exciting but precarious. I have not felt quite so vulnerable when living in other places. Oddly, that vulnerability was also part of feeling closely connected to nature: a connection I have not felt as powerfully since.    

Vehicles I Remember: 1963 Chevrolet (Last Installment in This Series)

Around 1966, my parents thought they needed a car with fewer miles than their 1957 Chevrolet had. They turned to the Dowdens, who were selling a 1963 white Chevrolet Bel Air. A generation earlier, Milton Dowden had been a sign painter in town; his son, Milton L., who went by “Milt,” could hang wallpaper better than anyone! Milt’s wife, Elsie, had given my mother a recipe for sour milk drop cookies that my mother included among her favorite desserts. My father and mother respected—and liked—the Dowdens very much. I recall almost no deliberation about the automobile; my parents bought it right away.

The 1963 Chevrolet Bel Air, an IH 560 Tractor,

Brothers Ready for School, and a Fox Terrier

My mother and father enjoyed the 63 Chevy more than I did. The aesthetics of the design did not appeal to me. There was something about the look and feel of the ceiling fabric that turned me off. The color was light aqua. The material felt like plastic, and it had a pattern of tiny circular holes. What can I say? After experiencing the interior of the 57 Chevrolet, the 63 seemed cheap inside. The seat covers also struck me as anything but luxurious. Even the exterior lines of the vehicle made me feel that Chevrolet had lowered its design standards. We were riding in a thin horizontal box with a roof and windows that projected above the box. The lack of chrome and the plain round taillights seemed to proclaim that everything about the car was cheapened to the lowest denominator.

As far as I remember, the car was dependable. It did not languish for long periods of time in Glen Bisel’s shop; rather, it ran and ran in its bland, undistinguished way. My family rode in its cheapness from place to place for many years. The white car reminded me of sour milk: that is, sour milk by itself, not as an ingredient in Elsie Dowden’s delicious cookies!

At the end of its life, the car faded into obscurity, replaced by a 1966 Pontiac Catalina that my parents and I loved. Typical of the Chevrolet was its unremarkable demise; I cannot remember what became of it.

I do fondly recall Elsie Dowden’s cookies, however! Here is her recipe:

Elsie Dowden’s Sour Milk Drop Cookies

Ingredients

1 cup shortening (butter and lard combined)

2 cups brown sugar

2 eggs

1 cup sour milk (or buttermilk)

1 cup raisins, chopped

½ cup chopped walnuts

4 cups flour

1 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp vanilla

½ tsp salt

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder (heaping tsp)

Directions

Preheat oven to 375°. Cream shortening and sugar. Add beaten eggs. Dissolve baking soda in milk. Sift flour, heaping teaspoon of baking powder, salt, and nutmeg together. Mix all and add floured nuts and raisins. Drop from spoon onto buttered baking sheet. Bake for ten minutes or until the bottom edges begin to turn lightly brown.

  

Why I Planted Tiger Lilies

When I was growing up, my family always drove to Fowler, Indiana, to see the fireworks on the Fourth of July. In the deepening dusk, anticipation grew until the crowd spotted the bobbing pink lights that were the wands the firemen used to ignite the rockets. A cheer went up, and, almost as quickly, so did the opening mortars with a whoosh soon followed by an explosion of vibrant colors.

I connect the spectacular bursts in the night sky with several “firsts” for me. At a very young age, I tasted my first cotton candy at the Fowler fireworks display. Later, I enjoyed my first coffee there. While I have not eaten cotton candy in many, many years, I am sipping a cup of coffee while I type this sentence.

I may have been in seventh grade when I was permitted to drink coffee. My father, mother, brother, and I were awaiting the fireworks. My father poured a cup of coffee from a thermos and handed the cup to my mother, who said, “Are you going to let Robert taste yours?”

“I don’t know. Am I?” my father asked.

“I think he’s old enough,” my mother observed.

My brother, a few years older than I, was already drinking coffee. My father poured a small amount into what was to be his cup and handed it to me. After I blew and blew on the coffee to cool it, I tried it. I loved the nutty flavor! I was hooked from that day forward, but, at first, I was permitted only the occasional cup.  

My Father's Tiger Lilies

I also connect fireworks with tiger lilies, which were my father’s favorite flowers. I think he conferred upon tiger lilies the special status of being his chosen blossoms because they were always in full bloom during his birthday in the third week of July.

The flamboyant lilies seem an incongruous choice of flower for my father, who was soft-spoken, mild, and gentle. I saw him lose his temper only once. It was when a sow broke through a barn door and escaped in the meadow. My father had gone to a lot of trouble to herd the pig into the stall, and, as he knew all too well, making a second attempt to coax the sow into the barn would be an exercise in futility. My father was unaware that I witnessed his anger. He thought he was alone, but I was hiding so as to surprise him when he walked past. Had I not observed his tantrum, I would tell you that he never lost his temper, and I really believe that he almost never did.

My Father Filling the Tank of the Farmall Tractor

Even though tiger lilies are loud and brassy, they are refined, and it is in their refinement that they share a characteristic with my father. A Valedictorian at a time long before any dumbing down of education, my father was intelligent, knowledgeable, and well spoken. He could compose and deliver a speech better than anyone, and such refinement finds an analogy in the tall stalks, exact leaves, and branching flowers of tiger lilies.

Tiger Lilies in Bright Sunlight

If you will make it a point to view such lilies after sundown on an endlessly mellow July evening—and if you will squint—you can imagine the flowers and the unopened buds as the pyrotechnic bursts and streaks of light from fireworks in the night sky.

Tiger Lilies Reminiscent of Fireworks

When my father passed away, a friend urged me to transplant at my home a clump of Dad’s cherished lilies. I did so, and, dependably, they have reached their fullest bloom during the week of my father’s birthday. They serve as a brilliant reminder of his life.