Across the Fence: Last Christmas

As the unofficial historian in the family, one would think that I should keep a detailed journal of all family events. Unfortunately I do not. I had a great-aunt Lydia who did just that and her records of family gatherings contain details that most folks would think were unnecessary. Her written accounts of weddings describe the bride's gown, the groom's suit, the cake, wedding colors and decorations, who was in attendance, the weather, the food and even the make and model of the car that the newlyweds drove away from the church. As I search my memory for fodder that will fill this column I am regretting that I have not done the same. Perhaps that is something to add to my list of New Year's resolutions.

Even though I have not kept meticulous records of those past events there are memories locked away that often surface and bring about that feeling of whimsy and nostalgia. Sometimes, I'm quite certain, the memory is even better, or maybe worse, than the reality of what actually happened-and often times the memories get tangled up with other rememberings. Suddenly the events of a birthday, an anniversary, Thanksgiving and Christmas all blend into one, and while I might remember what happened I may be wrong about when or where.

This past week my wife Deb and I spent a couple of days on the road, a few days in Omaha and a day with my dad in northeast Kansas. Logging over 1,500 miles of road time gives one time for reflection, and hours of visiting with my dad stirred memories of the past.

When visiting with my dad there is, on rare occasions, some two-way dialogue. However, most times the visiting is a one-way street, with Dad doing most of the talking. Fortunately his monologue is not boring-nor is it overly repetitive, for even at 91 years of age his memory is sharp, his conversation lively and interesting. It seems that I am always learning new things about him, things I had never heard before and I am so very thankful that we still have the opportunities to visit and that his memories are still so very clear.

These past two years have been most eventful and often difficult for my dad. In 2012 he lost his bride of 65 years and I think that loss, understandably, was the beginning of his declining health. For a man who was seldom sick and who only once spent any time in a hospital bed, his life's journey over the past several months has covered territory that was unfamiliar to him. After months of dizzy spells and increasingly frequent blackouts it was finally realized that the need for a pacemaker was a matter of life or death. Surgery left him weak and susceptible to a bacterial infection that nearly ended his longstanding run of health and longevity. Recovery was slow and consequences were unkind.

In all of Dad's 91 years he has seldom ventured outside of the county. He was born at home in 1922, spent the first 25 years of his life working with his dad on the home place then the next 20 years on an adjoining property just a few miles away. It was there that he and my mother raised their family until my grandparents retired to Colorado and Dad, Mom and the kids moved to Grandpa's house. Dad had gone back home and his bedroom was the room where he was born. When retirement finally came and landholdings were liquidated Dad kept the ten acres around the house and barns, kept his horse and settled in for the 'rest' of his life. "I'll be right here until the day I die," was his often-stated proclamation and sincere wish.

The house was already there, occupied by renters, before my grandpa and his new bride moved in after being married in 1920. Most people couldn't remember when the old frame house was not there, perched on the low, long sloping hill where the Kansas horizon stretched for miles away in all directions. Some said it was built in the 1850s, others claimed no later than the 60s, but it has to have been standing there at least 150 years. Grandpa added a living room and an additional upstairs bedroom. The pantry was expanded into a laundry room and part of the kitchen was walled off for an indoor bathroom.

Beginning in the late1960s through the late 80s, each of my siblings and I married off and moved away. Eventually the three upstairs bedrooms were empty as the old house accumulated more and more memories while becoming less and less boisterous. Aging plaster lost its grip on lathe and long, slender cracks ripped jagged patterns in layer upon layer of brittle wallpaper. Stairways creaked, doors stuck and floors sagged as the tired old house settled into the ground. Hand stacked limestone rocks that once served as a foundation slowly sank beneath its burden until wall plates and joists rested on the ground. But still he stayed, working each day to keep the place looking nice, fences up, corrals painted, windows caulked, doors trimmed, leaks patched. And each night he lay down to sleep in the room where he was born.

Dad left the house by ambulance this past August. The paramedic onboard the ambulance quickly recognized that the local hospital was ill-equipped to handle what needed to be done and directed the driver to Kansas City, some 60 miles away. It was there that they saved Dad's life but snatched away his wish.

After several days in ICU Dad was moved to a nursing home where with constant care he slowly regained his strength and health. The pacemaker eliminated the blackouts and, after winning the battle against a life-threatening infection, Dad regained his good health. I am often amused by the man who used to never complain about aches and pains and now frequently reminds me that, "I guess I'll never really be well. There's the 'arthur-itis' in my knees and jaw, I've got that hernia in my stomach, my ears don't work and I've got that scum over my eyes. But I guess it's like they say, 'Grandpa, you're 91 years old!'"

This past month Dad moved to assisted living. Three times a day a nurse stops in to bring his meals, check his blood sugar, prepare his many pills and make sure he is well. They greet him with cheerful enthusiasm, "Hello young man!"

A couple of days before Deb and I stopped to visit with Dad he had gone to the heart doctor for a checkup. Everything checked out on the good side and other than routine checkups they told him he had 9 years and 10 months. That's when the batteries in his pacemaker will need changed. "Guess I'll make it to 100," Dad said.

Dad has resigned himself to the strong likelihood that he will never go back to the home place and that he certainly will never again live there. He told us that we would probably see the day when the old house is torn down and something new is built in its place. It's true, the old building is unsafe and beyond any reasonable expectations of renovation. It is a wonder that it has stood so long against the constant Kansas wind that blows across that long and gently sloping hilltop and now, like all old buildings that stand empty, its walls will begin to fold in on its loneliness.

Before we left Kansas Deb and I drove out to the home place. I wanted to walk through the rooms once more, to stand in each room and remember. And being so close to Christmas, I wanted to stand in the living room where so many Christmases had been celebrated. The room where the branches of Mom's beautifully decorated tree of silver and blue, hovered over stacks of brightly wrapped presents. Where a family Christmas brought together more than fifty children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Deb and I walked to the back door, Deb pulled open the screen and I reached for the doorknob, it was locked. Although I understand the need to lock up an empty old farmhouse, I was shocked to find I could not just walk in. I am certain that for more than 100 years, the old house has never been locked.

Dad has celebrated 90 Christmases in that house, as a child with his parents and as a grown man with his family. Throughout my childhood I spent Christmases with Grandma and Grandpa, celebrated with my parents, my sisters and brother my children and grandchildren. Those Christmases are memories and I wonder if old memories hang around the places where they were made.

At the Nolting home place there will be no new memories made in the old house, for last Christmas was the last Christmas there.

M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. To contact Tim, email: [email protected]