Memories - Grandpa Pete

As I have mentioned before, I was lucky enough in my youth to have not only all four of my grandparents, but also two of my great-grandparents, nearby. Grandpa Pete was one of these latter, husband of great-grandma Gladys of whom I have already written. Of the six grandparents that I knew in my lifetime, Grandpa Pete was probably the least familiar to me. Our paths just didn’t cross as much as with the other grandparents. But I do have a few memories to share, so let us begin.
First of all, Grandpa Pete’s full name was Albert Henry Brandt. Why did we call him Grandpa Pete? I have no idea. When I was very small, our farm was quite busy, with Grandpa Pete, Grandpa Meril Dean, and Dad all active in the family business. In every tractor, every pickup, and every house, there was a cb radio so the men could keep in touch, and the women could reach them if they needed to. Grandpa Pete’s cb handle was “Pistol Pete”, I remember that name on the back window of his orange and white chevy pickup in stick-on letters. I’m guessing Pistol Pete was a nickname he had picked up somewhere, and that’s probably why we called him Grandpa Pete. That is, however, still largely a mystery to me.
When I think of Grandpa Pete, the first thing that always comes to mind is horses. Grandpa Pete loved horses. When I was still very small, he had a couple of horses on the farm, but nobody ever rode them as far as I know. I got the impression they were rather old. I can’t remember their names, but I’m thinking one of them might have been Pepper.
Loving horses as he did, Grandpa Pete enjoyed going to the races, probably at Fonner Park over in Grand Island since I think that is the closest track to here. One of the favorite photos that I have in my possession is of Grandpa Pete, along with his brother Adolph, sister Eva, family friend Demps Clark, and a few other people I do not know. They are all standing in front of a horse at the racetrack, the horse having won a race that day. The caption on the photo says the horse belonged to Aunt Eva. I guess I like the photo so much because I have very few pictures of Grandpa, and this one is rather old, showing a much younger Albert Brandt than the one I knew.
Grandpa Pete was, of course, a farmer, from a long line of farmers that ended with my dad. I have a newspaper clipping from 1950, announcing that Albert Brandt had purchased some land north of Gibbon. That would undoubtedly be the farm that I grew up on. I vaguely remember a story about Grandpa finding a $5 gold piece in one of his corn fields, butI don’t really remember where I heard that.
I think the only other thing that I personally remember about Grandpa Pete, was that he was always burning stuff. HaHa! Back in the day, farmers would burn off the stalks and “trash” from a field that had recently been harvested. Grandpa also liked to burn the road ditches, when the weeds got tall and were dry from lack of rain. I don’t think he was a pyromaniac, I guess he just liked things to look neat and tidy instead of ragged and weedy. They have a lot of laws and regulations about burning now-a-days so I don’t know if farmer’s still do that, but you could always count on Grandpa Pete to burn something up.
Since I don’t really remember a lot about Grandpa, I decided to ask my brother, Kevin, what he remembered. I figured Kevin probably knew him better than the rest of us since he, Dad, and Grandpa Pete all lived together for a while. Here’s what Kevin had to say:

I've given it a lot of thought and there's really only a few things that really stood out in my mind about him. It sure did bring back some memories though, both good and bad.
Well, things he liked was coffee, Grandma Gladys' sugar cookies, watermelon and he loved steak but he couldn't chew it so he gnawed on it for a while then spit it out. Also he had a thing for pickled pigs feet. He liked to watch Matlock and loved baseball. He always wore a blue long sleeve button up shirt with overalls. His hair was always cut short, crew cut, and wore his hat with the bill turned just to the side.
You already know that he liked the horse races and he took me a few times.
We would often just get in his pickup and go driving around the country looking at stuff and he always let me drive. He taught me how to skin pheasant and rabbits.
I don't really remember any thing that he said a lot other than "god dammit Kevin", but I guess that was all the grown ups.

Those are some pretty cool memories, and I didn’t know any of those things about Grandpa, although I do remember the blue work shirts and overalls since Kevin mentioned it. I think that’s pretty neat that he liked Grandma Gladys’ sugar cookies so much; didn’t we all! That’s also a little sad since he outlived his wife by three years or so.
Kevin also mentioned to me that Pete is a nickname for Albert and that’s why he went by that name, something else I did not know.
Albert Henry (Pete) Brandt was born on December 22, 1897, in Surprise, Nebraska. He married Gladys Opal Brogan on August 6, 1920, and died on July 15, 1985, in Kearney, Nebraska. He now rests in Riverside Cemetery in Gibbon, Nebraska, beside his wife, parents, son, and grandson.

Proverbs 12:11 Whoever works his land will have plenty of bread, but he who follows worthless pursuits lacks sense.

James 5:7 Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains.

Memories - Family Vacations

Ah, family vacations. We all love them, don’t we? Whenever we can afford to take them, that is. I remember the last one I went on. That was in 2003 I think, or maybe 2004. Joni, Adam, and I went down to Houston for a Labor Day weekend. We visited Johnson Space Center and Moody Gardens and stayed in a hotel and had a pretty good time.

That was a lot different than the family vacations we took when I was a kid. I’m talking way back in the 70’s, when Mom and Dad were still married. Dad was a farmer, as I have mentioned before, and we couldn’t go anywhere as long as he had to water the crops. So we waited for rain. It had to be a pretty good rain, too, so that he didn’t have to irrigate for a few days. When the rain finally came, we would put the topper on the pickup, hook up the boat, and head for Lake McConaughy, which is out east near Ogallala, Nebraska..

Mom and Dad would ride up front, and us four kids all rode in the back of the pickup with lots of blankets and pillows to flop around on. The tent, sleeping bags and coolers would all be packed in the boat for the trip. Those were such simple times. We didn’t worry about seat belts and air bags and crash test ratings, we just hopped in the back of the pickup, and off we went. If anyone tried that today, they’d probably be thrown in jail and their kids sent to foster homes. I don’t remember at all how long the trip to the lake was. I know it had to be at least a couple of hours, but we didn't mind. Getting there really was half the fun in those days.

Most of my memories of our camping trips are only fragments. There wasn't any one trip in particular that stands out in my mind. Our tent was blue and yellow and was big enough for all six of us. I remember the pitch blackness of those nights in the tent. I was afraid of the dark as a child, but with my family all around me, there was nothing to be afraid of. One memory fragment I have is of waking up in the middle of the night and feeling cold. I got up and carefully felt my way around for a minute looking for the pile of blankets. When I found a blanket and tried to take it, someone pulled back, so I think I gave up.

Those bright summer days of roaming the sandy shore of the lake seemed endless. The particular area where we always camped had kind of a little cliff with a long slope of sand stretching out in front of it. We used to climb to the top of the slope and then run down, or roll down all the way to the bottom. I kind of remember Brad stepping on a cactus there one time. I think Mom has some pictures of us rolling down that slope.

Speaking of pictures, I remember one picture that Mom has. It is of me holding a tiny little tadpole in my cupped hands. I only vaguely remember catching tadpoles where the water was very shallow. Actually, I think someone else caught the tadpole, maybe Brad, and gave it to me so Mom could take the picture. I was very young, couldn’t have been more than five. I think my hair was still mostly blond in that picture.

Of course, we would go out on the boat, too, but that wasn’t my favorite part of going to the lake. Dad liked to go fishing, but I never cared much for it. Also, Mom and the older kids would water ski, but I was too little. We had to wear those bulky orange life-jackets, too, and I hated wearing them. I remember one time when the boat broke down, and Dad had to call out on the CB radio to get someone to tow us back to the marina.

Just fragments. I remember Spam and squeezy cheese in a tube that we put on crackers or celery. I remember different flavors of Shasta sodas, we call it pop here in the Midwest. Those were special treats that we only indulged in at the lake, making our time there even more special. I can’t really remember what else we ate. I remember the little portable am/fm radio. Barry Manilow’s “Copa Cabana” was a big hit one summer, I remember hearing it on the radio at the lake. And sand, sand, sand. No matter how you tried, it just got into everything.

Our little family vacations sure were fun, and they always ended too soon. The saddest part was taking the boat out of the water because then you really knew it was over. “Just one more dip in the water? Please, Mom, please?” The answer was always "No.” Back into the pickup we went, and back home to the boring old farm.

Those were the good old days, all right. It’s tempting, sometimes, to wish for those days again, but that’s just not the way of things. God gave each one of us a unique past, and a unique set of life experiences. All of our lives He works to make each one of us a unique and valuable part of His plan.

We all have good memories, and bad memories. We should never wish the bad ones had never happened, because they made us who we are, just as much as the good ones did. Wishing for a different past is like telling God He made a mistake. He shaped each of us to perform a particular task, something that no other person on Earth can do. It’s our job to find out what that task is, and do it to the best of our abilities. And the greatest thing about God is that it’s never too late. As long as you are drawing breath, there’s still time. Make the most of it!

1 Corinthians 12:12 The body is a unit, though it is made up of many parts; and though all its parts are many, they form one body. So it is with Christ.

Memories - The Pasture

Kids these days! They just don’t know how to have fun, sitting in front of a TV all day playing video games, or doing heaven knows what on the internet. When I was a kid, we actually went outside and played. You know, running and jumping and stuff like that. We played games like hide-and-seek, or tag; freeze tag was my favorite, but I liked shadow tag as well.

One of my favorite places to play when I was a child, aside from the corn field, was our cow pasture. Our pasture hardly ever had any cows in it, so it became our own personal playground. It was way better than most playgrounds, though. It had all kinds of neat places to play, and far corners to explore. It wasn’t an overly large pasture I think, but when I was little it seemed like the other side was very far away.

On the edge up close to the house, was a little shelter for the cows to go in when it was cold. Of course, that made a nice little play-house for us. After a while it got torn down though. Probably it was close to falling down anyway.

Near the shelter was a big old tree. I don’t know what kind of tree it was, but it was huge. The lowest branch of the tree must have been a good six or eight feet off the ground, much too high for us to reach. That didn’t stop us from climbing it, though. We found a long, heavy board and propped it up in the crook of the tree, and would kind of shinny up it. That was as high as we could go, but we didn’t mind, it was very roomy. Not quite as roomy as we thought, however. One time Bobbi, Kevin, and I all tried to get up there at the same time. I ended up falling out and breaking both of my arms. I was in kindergarten at the time. I don’t really remember climbing the tree anymore after that.

At the corner of the pasture nearest our house, was kind of a separate fenced in area. I guess that’s where they would put the cows if they needed to be branded or something. There was a cattle chute on one side, to let the cows in or out. On the other side was a huge and heavy wooden gate. The gate hadn’t been used for a long time and it leaned to one side. I remember pulling the gate back as far as I could, it was very heavy, then hopping on and riding it as it swung back the other way. That was quite a thrilling ride, but always too short.

In this same area was a small feeding pen. I think that’s what it was anyway. It was a square enclosure, maybe twelve feet on a side, constructed of very heavy planks of wood. It was really nothing more than a wooden fence; the hay would go in the middle and the cows could stick their heads in between the boards to eat. I have no idea why the hay had to be inside a pen, but it was fun to tightrope walk around the top of it. I don’t think I ever went in the middle of it, though. The grass was always very tall in there, and who knows what might have been lurking in there; snakes maybe, or monsters.

Somewhere in the pasture, we could always find the wheels. They were old wagon wheels or something, just a pair of metal spoked wheels connected across the middle by a bar. We would grab on to that bar and just take off running. The next thing we knew, we were clear across the pasture and had to walk all the way home. Not very far, but like I said, it seemed like a long trip back then. Those wheels were a lot of fun.

There was a low spot in the pasture that would fill with water if it rained enough. We didn’t play in the water because it was dirty, but in the winter it would freeze over and we had our own little skating pond.

Somewhere out in the middle of the pasture was a roll of some kind of fencing material. It had been rolled into a bale and just discarded out there. The roll was kind of flattened on top, but it was still very springy. You could jump on it and go flying off. I also remember one time I tied my kite string onto it and just laid back on the ground, looking up into the bright summer sky as the kite soared overhead.

On the far side of the pasture, was a wooded area. Lots of trees with a little creek, or crick if you prefer, running through it. That always felt like such a magical and secret place. When you’re a kid, any place that grownups never go seems magical and secret, I guess.

I can’t imagine how many hours we must have spent playing in the pasture. The corn field was fun, but it was only there for a few months. The pasture was always there, waiting to give up its secrets to us. You just never knew what you might find; strangely shaped artifacts of rusty iron half-buried in the earth, or overgrown by a clump of weeds. Sometimes it felt like you were exploring the ruins of a vanished civilization, finding relics and trying to decipher what they might have been used for.

Ah, those were the good old days. Time gets away from us, somehow; we grow older and our priorities change. As children, we spent most of our time pursuing the things that made us happy, scheming to try to get a little more than our brothers or sisters or classmates. But then we grow up and, well, hummmm, maybe our priorities don’t change so much after all. I guess sometimes we forget that we’re supposed to be looking out for eachother, helping each other. Maybe it’s time, finally, to leave our childhood behind.

Romans 13:11 And that, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed.

Memories; Children of the Corn

Hi there! If you’ve been to Drums In The Deep before, I’m very glad to have you back. If this is your first visit, welcome!

I think I said in an earlier post that I wasn’t going to bore you with long descriptions of life in the Midwest, but I’ve changed my mind. “Captain’s Prerogative” as Jean-Luc Picard would say. Being back home here in Nebraska has left me feeling kind of nostalgic so I thought I would explore that a little bit.

When I was a child, during the mid 1970’s this was, we had to be a little more creative in our entertainment than kids today. The internet was still 20 years away. Computers had already been invented, of course, but the smallest model would have been roughly the size of the house my family lived in. Heck, the Atari game system wasn’t even around yet. Also, we lived “in the country” which meant that during summer vacation we rarely, if ever, saw our friends from school. No, it was pretty much just my three siblings and me.

We had fun though, don’t get me wrong. When you live on a farm there are always things to explore and fun places to play. The thing I remember most about those long summers is the corn.

The house we grew up in was bordered closely on two sides by cornfields. In the spring and early summer Dad would always be in the field, driving his tractor up and down the long rows. Planting, cultivating, ridging, spraying: I can’t imagine the hours he must have spent out there.

Sometimes when Dad was working in the field, Mom would be in the kitchen baking chocolate-chip cookies. Dad liked them without the chips, what a weirdo. She would bake him some plain ones before adding the chocolate, put them in a container, and send me outside with them. I would stand at the edge of our yard, right where it bordered the cornfield, and wait for the tractor to pass by. When it did, I would walk out to meet it. Dad would stop the tractor and help me up into the cab so I could give him his cookies. Then he would let me sit on his lap for a while and steer the tractor. Not that there was much steering to do. I got to hold onto the wheel though, and that was pretty darn cool.

By late June or so, the tractor work would be done and there was nothing to do but watch the corn grow. Corn grows pretty fast and it also grows pretty tall. If you’ve never been up close to a cornfield you may not realize that the stalks can grow to a height of seven feet or more. To a kid of 6 or 7 years, that is an awesome height. Once the corn was over our heads, the real fun would begin.

There would be endless games of tag, or hide-and-seek out in the corn. We would trample a few stalks down here and there to make paths and mazes to play in. Until Grandpa found out, that is. He was not impressed. It’s hard for me to put into words what a magical place that was to play in. Wonderful and a little scary all at the same time. Secretive and exciting. What if we got lost out there someday and couldn’t find our way back to the yard? Being the youngest, that probably bothered me more than the older kids. But I always felt safe with my brothers and sister.

Well, the impossibly long summers always managed to end very abruptly, and then it was time to go back to school. As September faded into October, the corn would gradually ripen and begin to turn dry and brown. Then one day we would come home from school and the combine would be making its rounds, slowly gobbling up the corn.

Those golden days of late October stand out so clearly in my mind. Watching Dad drive the combine back and forth across the field, stopping occasionally to dump the picked and shelled corn into one of the trucks. And how strange to see the old trucks moving around! All year they just sat there like museum relics, and now they were moving around; lumbering dinosaur skeletons suddenly come to life!

Before we knew it, the corn was all gone and there was nothing left but empty husks and chaff blowing up into the yard. That was a little sad, but also kind of new and exciting. After being boxed in by the corn all those months, suddenly we could see for miles in every direction. Like the whole world had been opened up to us. So long corn, see you next summer.

Those were the good old days. My family was not well off, we didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, but somehow that never bothered us. We had each other and that was enough. I have a family of my own now, and how I long to give them the kind of life I had. It’s not within my means to give this to them, but you know what? We have each other, and that’s enough.

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Matthew 9:37-38 Then saith He unto His disciples, “The harvest truly is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Pray ye, therefore, the Lord of the harvest, that He will send forth laborers into His harvest.”