Monday, January 19, 2004
MY DAD (PART ONE)
My dad was born October 18, l903 and given the name of Francis Bonnick. I mentioned earlier his middle name was shortened from my grandmother’s maiden name of Bonnicksen. He was born at the Nacora farm and was the sixth son. To a farmer this was better than a hired hand…… a son would be with you for a lot of plantings. By the time dad came along the farm was in good repair both fields and buildings. There are pictures of grandma and some of the boys at different times in the front yard and there are flower beds and the things that tell me they now had time for some “extras”. Grandma wore nice dresses on days when they would be having company but still helped with outside work when she was needed. Dad had lots of attention getters with older brothers around.
Dad’s younger years were spent near the house. I have only one story about his pre-school days. He would laugh and tell about a time grandma was washing and busy with getting clothes on the line when the older boys saw their chance for some fun. Grandpa used to make his own beer or whisky, I don’t remember which. He kept it in the cave so the older boys got a fruit jar and would slip in and get some of it to drink. Then they left the jar and went innocently on their way. Ever so often they would come back and get another drink. Dad noticed all this and so the next time they went away, he got the jar and put some of the liquor in it…..and drank it all. He was standing on top of the cave and all of a sudden he collapsed and rolled all the way to the bottom right in front of grandma. Of course he was out like a light. Grandma rounded up the boys and they got a thrashing while she took dad in and proceeded to make him throw up.
Of course I heard about how far it was to walk to school and how they had to go through fields that had wild bulls that would chase them. It doesn’t mean much until you get older and realize just how far a couple of miles is to negotiate with blinding snow and freezing temperatures. He told me once that they all got an apple for Christmas and he was so proud of it he wanted to take it to school to eat with his lunch. He carried it in his hand all the way with his mittens on. When he got to school the apple was gone. His hand got so cold he never knew when it slipped out and dropped. With snow up to the top of fences there was no hope of ever finding it on the way home. The story really impressed me and I never forgot it. I felt sorry for dad.
School days were tolerated but dad and his brother Ted, hated going. They much preferred being at the farm where the older brothers were. To create diversions from their boredom they and the other older boys at school hatched up mischief and carried it out. They would lock the girls in the out-house, they put a frog in the bucket of drinking water…..they made mud balls at recess and took them into the building in their pockets. The minute the teacher’s back was turned they would throw them up on the wall above her. After the first half-dozen were thrown she threatened them soundly……then the second volley came. Needless to say the boys regretted their actions. In one of the school pictures dad pointed out the clumps of dried mud on the wall where the mud-balls had hit. Dad and uncle Ted would tell these stories on different occasions and one of my brother’s favorites was when the big boys at school threw shotgun shells into the pot-bellied stove. They would slap their knees and laugh anew at their memory of a terrified young teacher herding them all out of the building until the last shot exploded. How we loved to hear their stories and share in each experience ……for it was almost as real as if we were there. I heard those stories so much I began prompting them at times as if I had actually been there. My dad and his brothers could certainly entertain us all with their antics. I remember mama and aunt Beulah laughing until the tears ran down their faces. Oh how I wish I could relive all that again…..to see those dear ones reliving wonderful events that were so heart-warming.
Dad and uncle Ted only went to the eighth grade. From then until they left home on their own, they worked the farm for grandpa. Their education sounds to us like it was cut too short for them to be able to make a decent living but my dad could out-figure me any day of the week ………and all in his head. With my city schooling, pencil and paper I was no match for him. Think of the great inventors, business men, builders-all who only went through the eighth grade in a country school house with a bell on top and a young scared teacher to teach. With this and the likes of this they built the strongest nation in the world.
Tomorrow we find dad loses his heart.
Until then,
Essentially Esther
Dad’s younger years were spent near the house. I have only one story about his pre-school days. He would laugh and tell about a time grandma was washing and busy with getting clothes on the line when the older boys saw their chance for some fun. Grandpa used to make his own beer or whisky, I don’t remember which. He kept it in the cave so the older boys got a fruit jar and would slip in and get some of it to drink. Then they left the jar and went innocently on their way. Ever so often they would come back and get another drink. Dad noticed all this and so the next time they went away, he got the jar and put some of the liquor in it…..and drank it all. He was standing on top of the cave and all of a sudden he collapsed and rolled all the way to the bottom right in front of grandma. Of course he was out like a light. Grandma rounded up the boys and they got a thrashing while she took dad in and proceeded to make him throw up.
Of course I heard about how far it was to walk to school and how they had to go through fields that had wild bulls that would chase them. It doesn’t mean much until you get older and realize just how far a couple of miles is to negotiate with blinding snow and freezing temperatures. He told me once that they all got an apple for Christmas and he was so proud of it he wanted to take it to school to eat with his lunch. He carried it in his hand all the way with his mittens on. When he got to school the apple was gone. His hand got so cold he never knew when it slipped out and dropped. With snow up to the top of fences there was no hope of ever finding it on the way home. The story really impressed me and I never forgot it. I felt sorry for dad.
School days were tolerated but dad and his brother Ted, hated going. They much preferred being at the farm where the older brothers were. To create diversions from their boredom they and the other older boys at school hatched up mischief and carried it out. They would lock the girls in the out-house, they put a frog in the bucket of drinking water…..they made mud balls at recess and took them into the building in their pockets. The minute the teacher’s back was turned they would throw them up on the wall above her. After the first half-dozen were thrown she threatened them soundly……then the second volley came. Needless to say the boys regretted their actions. In one of the school pictures dad pointed out the clumps of dried mud on the wall where the mud-balls had hit. Dad and uncle Ted would tell these stories on different occasions and one of my brother’s favorites was when the big boys at school threw shotgun shells into the pot-bellied stove. They would slap their knees and laugh anew at their memory of a terrified young teacher herding them all out of the building until the last shot exploded. How we loved to hear their stories and share in each experience ……for it was almost as real as if we were there. I heard those stories so much I began prompting them at times as if I had actually been there. My dad and his brothers could certainly entertain us all with their antics. I remember mama and aunt Beulah laughing until the tears ran down their faces. Oh how I wish I could relive all that again…..to see those dear ones reliving wonderful events that were so heart-warming.
Dad and uncle Ted only went to the eighth grade. From then until they left home on their own, they worked the farm for grandpa. Their education sounds to us like it was cut too short for them to be able to make a decent living but my dad could out-figure me any day of the week ………and all in his head. With my city schooling, pencil and paper I was no match for him. Think of the great inventors, business men, builders-all who only went through the eighth grade in a country school house with a bell on top and a young scared teacher to teach. With this and the likes of this they built the strongest nation in the world.
Tomorrow we find dad loses his heart.
Until then,
Essentially Esther
