By Jim Nichols

The first two weeks of July were part of my boyhood rhythm. More correctly, they were part of my family’s annual rhythm. Those were the weeks when Procter and Gamble (my father’s employer) shut down the plant. Only maintenance workers remained; everyone else was on vacation.

My parents planned family trips for us and, since Kansas City is in the center of the country, those trips radiated in any direction in any given summer. The Colorado mountains, Missouri/Arkansas Ozarks, Galveston, Black Hills of South Dakota—vacation time was family time in the car. My father was an expert at packing the luggage for five into the trunk. I am sure I did not fully appreciate the parental effort (let alone expense) of supplying those enjoyable and educational adventures for my sisters and me.

Few of the trips were repeats, the exception being into northwestern Iowa. That was the only one that had the additional feature of making a connection with extended family. That was the second stop in Iowa; the first was at Lake Okoboji.

Besides the excitement of an “Indian name” for my boyhood brain, this was a large, blue, and cool lake with cabins for rent. Automobile tires in those days all contained an inner tube. My father kept worn out tubes and applied orange patches (like human Band-Aids) to cover the holes. When inflated, the tubes became chairs in which you could float in the lake if you tired of swimming—just avoid scratching yourself on the tube’s air valve. Nearly adjacent to the lake was Arnold’s Park, an amusement park with typical rides that thrilled and caused laughter for each of us.

After some days at Okoboji, we went a short distance to the farm of Aunt Bea and Uncle Bill, the first working farm I had ever encountered. The post office said they lived in Everly, Iowa, but Everly is so small it hardly existed. Bea and Bill lived outside Everly.

They were not truly my aunt and uncle; they were my mother’s aunt and uncle, but they accepted the titles from us despite the relative imprecision.

Their farmhouse was what any child would envision as a farmhouse—two story white with a picket fence. I do not know how far their land extended, but nearby was a barn and other small sheds, chicken coops, and sundry farm implements, including a tractor that Bill drove like a real farmer.

Our family slept in the house for several nights. Children, like college students, can sleep almost anywhere. My dad hung up his pants by the cuff after he pulled open the top dresser drawer a bit; Bea thought that was odd. She collected what she called “antiques” and had a whole room that was a closed-in porch full of glass jars, figurines, cups, saucers, and plates. Most were blue and white and my interest in them was mild, but my mother liked them. When Bea put food on the table she would say, “Grab it and growl.”

Bea was a large-bodied woman; she spoke with some pride how she had broken chairs when she sat in them. Bill was the opposite; borderline skinny, he wore overalls and a straw hat. It was the type of hat I thought a farmer should wear, not a baseball cap like is worn today.

In the 1950s television was in its infancy. Bea and Bill not only had a TV, but a tall external antenna extending to the sky for better reception in the country. In the house was an electronic box that you could use to rotate the antenna; I thought that was great. The antenna was important because Bea’s preferable television shows were professional wrestling; she had a favorite wrestler named Lou Fezz.

It was clear that Uncle Bill owned the outside of the farm and Aunt Bea owned the inside.

I spent much time with Bill. He was amazed I was so naïve about a farm, but he was interested in teaching me about it. We gathered eggs regularly. The chickens had no boundaries and devoured the corn Bill and I shed from cobs. My intimidation of the chickens diminished as I realized their interest was in the corn, not me.

There were cows and horses and many cats. The cats liked to be petted. I asked my mother why cats liked that, and she said, “Everyone likes to be touched and petted.” It was parental wisdom such as when I asked her (following a Bible story), “What is adultery?” After taking a breath, she replied, “It is a special type of stealing.” I understood what stealing was, so I was satisfied with that answer.

Each of us has been shaped by our experiences. Sometimes it is words that shape us; in Everly, Iowa, my visits to the farm were the language of shaping.

Jim Nichols is a retired Abilene Christian University biology professor and current hospital chaplain