Uncle Cephas

In my family, oral history has been repeated and handed down for generations. I am attempting to preserve some of the more colorful stories. A favorite is about my great-great uncle Cephas.

Cephas was born in 1884. He was smart, good-looking and somewhat privileged because his parents had worked hard and provided him with more ease and worldly goods than the average homesteader.

At the age of twenty, he married a beautiful woman from Oklahoma. She came from land and money, but Hattie did not take to country life and hated the farm. She bore him two daughters. Neither infant lived more than a few days. Their farm prospered, but the marriage was unhappy. Finally, his wife moved out of their rural home, and Cephas bought her a handsome house in town where she thrived in the company of other women. Nothing made her happier than ladies’ clubs and hosting afternoon get-togethers and card parties. Nothing made her more unhappy than cigars, dirty boots and dogs in the house. Watching him eat off the same fork with his dog disgusted her.

Cephas accumulated more land and developed retail businesses in town. If he got lonely, he visited Hattie. It didn’t take more than a day or two for him to remember why he lived on the farm instead of with his wife.  He couldn’t do anything right and was nagged incessantly about farting and belching in front of her friends. Frankly, he behaved that way on purpose and seemed to delight in annoying her.

Black Gold was discovered under his land, and Hattie demanded he spend the income on her. Perversely, they continued to live apart. She loved to show off the things his money provided her with, and he seemed to enjoy buying the objects. Thus they remained, blissfully separate, for the majority of their married life.

From 1946 through 1949 the nation was bombarded with an ad campaign which changed the thinking of women everywhere. Diamonds were a girl's best friend. Diamonds were forever. Traveling lecturers spoke at high school and college assemblies, brainwashing young women to expect to receive a diamond ring from their sweethearts.
http://www.thefrisky.com/2012-02-09/the-diamond-myth-how-diamonds-became-a-girls-best-friend/

Courtesy of radio and newsprint, Hattie became convinced by the early 1950's that her husband had been remiss in not beautifying her hand. She needed something with some flash to impress her friends. She began her own not so subtle campaign against Cephas. He allowed the cajoling to continue until he agreed to buy her a diamond ring. But there was a condition. Since she had an inheritance from her deceased parents, he thought it only fair that she pay half the price of the ring. Realizing that was the best deal she was going to get, she accepted the stipulation.

St. John boasted a jewelry store, and Cephas casually told her to pick something out and have the owner send him half the bill. Leaving her house, he high-tailed it to the shop and explained the situation to the proprietor, whose business adjoined one of his own.

Cephas instructed his partner in deception to let Hattie pick out any ring she liked. Intimating that she was probably going to hold him up for the most expensive bauble in the store, the owner suggested he show her salesman samples. They were cheap metal and glass representations of costly settings which he would order from Kansas City.

The conversation ended with Cephas saying he didn’t care what ring she chose. The catch was that the owner was to quote her a price exactly twice the actual value. It didn’t take the jeweler two seconds to catch on. They shook hands and slapped each other on the back at the joke they were going to pull on her.

Hattie showed up at the jewelry store the next day and pored over the pieces in the cases. The jeweler used all his skill at flattery to convince her none of the rings did justice to her lovely hand. Slyly retrieving the samples from beneath the counter, he waxed eloquent as he enticed her to imagine the light glittering from a one-carat diamond surrounded by smaller stones. 

Hattie was carried away by the description and didn’t even blink at the price. When informed it would be eight weeks before the ring would grace her finger, she snidely thought her husband could use a couple more months of income to pay for his half of the one of a kind masterpiece. She would also receive the sample. No other customer could order her ring.

The anticipated day arrived, and Cephas was imperiously summoned to town with a reminder to bring his checkbook. When the ring was slipped onto his wife’s finger, he dutifully admired it and complimented her excellent taste. The jeweler pointed out the qualities of the platinum band and elegant setting. He coaxed her to the window where the sunshine did indeed refract light into thousands of glittering facets.

Hattie wrote a check for her half. As Cephas filled out his check, he thanked the owner for helping his wife choose such a lovely ring. He expected her to get years of enjoyment from it. As they happily left the shop, Cephas offered to take her out to a restaurant where she could show it off. Looking over his shoulder as the door swung closed behind them, he saw the proprietor tearing his check into tiny pieces.




Cephas and Hattie discovered the secret to a happy marriage.  Live in separate houses.

PRANKING MY BROTHER

Generally, I don't recommend playing practical jokes on people who know you well. They know how to get even.

When I was teetering on forty, a flyer from a well-known photography company appeared in our mailbox.

             FREE GLAMOUR SITTING

Free stuff.  I'm in, with my husband's enthusiastic approval. A lot of ladies I knew responded to the invitation. Students from an area cosmetology college did our hair (but only the part around your face that would show in the photo) and applied makeup. The photographer provided racks of accessories, from pearls and lace to denim and rhinestones, and feather boas.

About six weeks later they rolled back through town with the proofs where we learned the fine print. I wasn't the only one who mistakenly thought I'd get some free pictures. My husband was persuaded to purchase a framed canvas of his favorite, and we bought a couple of loose 8 x 10s and all the proofs.

I gave one to my mother and told her it was my thirty-nine and holding shot. There is something about sitting in an alluring pose with a professional photographer tilting your chin just so, and giving you a specific spot to look at that changes your entire demeanor, especially when combined with soft lighting and out-of-focus effects. Mom spent way too many words saying she didn't recognize her daughter. She said I ought to send one of the poses to my brother and see if he knew who it was.

My cousin from Denver just happened to be visiting. So we hatched a plan. At first, the idea was to anonymously mail the picture from an address he wouldn't recognize.  My cousin graciously said one of her friends wouldn't mind if we used her return address. Naturally, she would need to carry the envelope home with her and have it postmarked from the city.

Then I got the idea of messing with him. What kind of message could we write on the back that would make my brother think a strange woman had sent him a picture of herself?  We considered and discarded the idea of saying something like 'Wish you were here.'  We didn't want his wife to accuse him of something he hadn't done. Finally, we settled on 'Thinking of you.' My cousin wrote on the back of the picture in her lovely script and dotted the i's with cute little hearts. 💜 💜

Two days later it belatedly occurred to me we had excluded a vital participant from the joke. I called my sister-in-law and confessed what we had done. She promised to keep an eye on the mail. Several days went by. I had stopped imagining possible scenarios of my brother pulling that picture out of the envelope.

His wife called. In a barely audible voice, she said, "Lisa, the picture is here. How long am I supposed to keep him guessing?"
I said I thought a week or ten days would be about right.
"I can't do that. He's about to stroke out," she said.

An hour later he called.  "You got me good.  REAL GOOD."

He went on to tell me that when he opened the envelope, his first instinct was to stuff the package in the garbage disposal. (It probably had something to do with another story about strange high heels in his hotel room. He was innocent!) He couldn't destroy it because the mail was on the counter where his wife had laid it. She was sure to ask what was in the manila envelope. By that time she had sauntered into the kitchen, and he managed to choke out that someone was playing a rotten trick on him.

First, he investigated the return address. A grade school friend lived in the Denver area. He looked the address up, and it didn't match. It didn't occur to him that our relatives in Colorado would play a joke on him. Then he combed through the business cards he had exchanged with female engineers over the past few years. None were from Denver. None should be sending him enticing pictures.


Meanwhile, his wife had nonchalantly examined the picture and read the intriguing message on the reverse. "I think this looks like your sister," she blabbed.

He told me he scrutinized the photo even more closely and disagreed with her. He retrieved his family memento shoebox, and a magnifying glass, and compared every picture he had of me to the one in his hand. Through the process of comparison, he proved the glamour image wasn't me.

About that time their daughter came home from school. My sister-in-law stuck the picture in her face and said, "Quick. Who is this?"

"Aunt Lisa," she responded.

As practical jokes go, that one was a great success. I spent the next ten years waiting for him to get even. He sure knows how to keep a person in suspense.

Watusi Cattle

My father raised Watusi for many years. These domesticated African cattle should not be confused with Longhorns. The Ankole-Watusi have been registered as a breed in the U.S. since 1983.  Dad was interested in them for three reasons. The first was his life-long abiding fascination with anything different or unusual. The second was the fact the meat is lean, and much like venison with no marbling. Third, the cows have easy births dropping forty pound calves. Rarely does an owner lose a cow or calf or require a visit from the vet.

There are two ways to describe the Ankole-Watusi.  Foundation Pure which means 100% pure bloodlines.  Or, Native Pure, which means a crossbred animal has been bred back to pure until it is 15/16ths Watusi DNA.

Dad also liked their disposition.  Although they have the most massive horns of any cattle breed, they aren't considered aggressive.  The lyre-shaped horns are the animal's air-conditioner with excess body heat dispersed through the blood vessels in the horns.

      I admit to being a little anxious when Grandpa led the kids among the herd to this baby.

Watusi need their space.  If too closely confined, they will swing their horns at one another demanding more room.  They also use their horns to brush flies away.  Most cattle would use their tail. They can accidentally knock a person down when they suddenly swing their head.

After they are butchered, the skull and horns make great decor. Dad donated a set of horns to many a local fund-raiser.

 
If you would like to see more images or learn more, here are a couple of links.


https://livestockconservancy.org/index.php/heritage/internal/ankole-watusi
http://www.awir.org/Ankole Watusi International Registration+

Ol' Bill

His short, stiff hair was close to the color of burnt orange or bittersweet Crayolas; the ones in the box of 48. He had a feathery line of longer white hair down his spine from the base of his head to the top of his tail. It was also that orange-y color, with a messy tuft of longer white hair at the tip. His face was white with a smooth pink nose dotted with small black splotches. The outside of his ears was the same color as his body, but the insides had white hair in them. They swiveled and twitched nervously at the least sound. 

He was a little taller than me, but I was only seven years old.  His nose always looked wet because cattle are like dogs when it comes to noses. Sometimes their nose runs like a human, except they don't have a mom to wipe it. One time when I got too close, he swung his head around, and that wet nose got against the school dress my grandma had made for me. I ran to the house and cried until my mother helped me take it off without getting any of those slobbers and other stuff on my skin. My daddy laughed and said it was clean snot since it had never touched the ground.

Ol’ Bill lived in a corral behind the barn with other Hereford steers.  He wasn’t old, but he was special. He had gotten hurt in the truck that delivered the pen of calves to our farm. He limped and didn’t grow much compared to the rest of the herd. When Daddy or Grandpa put silage in the feed bunks, the others pushed and crowded to get all the food they could. Ol’ Bill kept to himself near the fence. Daddy would bring a bucket of the feed and put it on the ground in front of him, while my brother and I reached through the fence and stroked his coarse sides. He didn’t mind that we touched him and we were never afraid that he would hurt us.

I don’t remember if we asked if we could ride Bill, or if Daddy asked us if we would like to try it. On a sunny afternoon after school, the family gathered at the fence where our furry friend was standing in his usual spot. Mom had her Kodak Instamatic camera ready to record the event for posterity.

First, Daddy settled my little brother on Ol’ Bill’s back and stood at the ready to snatch him to safety if the calf reacted badly. He really didn’t react at all. My brother was as tickled as if someone had handed him a new puppy. Mom captured the moment with a grainy picture of his big smile showing he had lost his two front teeth.
 


Then it was my turn. Bill was coaxed closer to the fence where Mom helped my brother step off Bill’s back and I eagerly stepped on. I was surprised. It was nothing like sitting on my pony. His backbone was pronounced and more than a little uncomfortable to sit on. The feather of white hair tracing his spine wasn’t quite long enough to hold onto. The stiff hair prickled my legs through my cotton dress. 

Daddy gave him a tug on the ear, and he took a couple of steps. His thick hide rolled loosely on his body as he moved. I squeezed as tightly as I could with my legs, but that only made the swaying more pronounced. I grabbed for something to hold. Suddenly I understood why people ride horses instead of cattle. 

We begged Mom to take a turn but she smiled and said she was too big to sit on him.

Our initial effort to ride Ol’ Bill was a triumph. Our success yardstick measured the fact that no one got hurt, or ended up on the ground smeared with manure. Dad fashioned a temporary halter out of a length of rope and would occasionally lead us back and forth in the corral at evening feeding time. I think it was to make Bill exercise instead of entertain us. 

Ol' Bill never wagged his tail or appeared happy to see us like a dog would. He stood by the fence and patiently waited to be fed. We didn't grow up with him. One day the pen of cattle were sold and he was gone. Such are the facts of life on the farm.

UHT OH, ADWIAN

In Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank, the title is a secret signal between a high ranking Air Force officer at Strategic Air Command in Nebraska, and his brother back home in Florida. It is a bone-chilling warning that nuclear war is impending. When I was growing up, our family had its own code for disaster. Thankfully, we never had to use it because of mushroom clouds on the horizon. 

My brother was a Boy Scout. He participated in all the mysterious activities Boy Scouts do while sisters stay at home. Cool stuff like wearing a uniform to meetings, camping out, practicing interesting skills, learning to cook over a campfire. It sounded like fun. He came home from one such adventure very excited about a skit two other campers had performed for the entertainment of the troop.

I should stop right here and say this skit may have been published exclusively for Scouts in a pamphlet suitable for the age group. Never having been initiated into the arcane world of scouting, I don't know that for certain. Without concrete proof I will give the credit to that prolific writer, ANONYMOUS.

Despite the fact the original skit required two performers, my brother decided he could act both parts (three parts, if you counted the off-stage sound effects). He persuaded Mom and Dad to rearrange the dining room into a suitable theater. They good-naturedly pushed the table off to the side and set three straight chairs in a row for the audience, them and me.

He began the skit by introducing the characters, Bobby and a goat named Adrian.  Bobby couldn't pronounce his R's very well, so Adrian sounded like Adwian.  Bobby was leading Adwian on a leash down a railroad track.  Track sounded more like twack. You will need to use your imagination to picture my brother acting out both parts.

In no particular hurry, they walked along talking about things young boys and goats talk about. Unfortunately, Adwian got his little hoof stuck between two railroad ties.  Imagine my little brother bent over walking on his hands, pretending to be the goat Adrian, with his left hand caught in the imaginary ties, then Bobby pantomiming tugging on the leash, trying to get him unstuck. Adwian is a little upset and lets out a couple of half-hearted bleats.  "Naa, naaa."
"Don't wowwy, Adwian," Bobby says. "I'll get you out."

My brother jumped up and ran around the corner into the kitchen where he made the sound of a far-off train whistle.  wooo  wooo

Back to the dining room (stage).

Bobby:  Adwian, the twain is coming.

Adrian:  Struggles to loosen his hoof.  Naa! Baa!

Bobby:  Pulls on Adrian's leg and tries to get him loose.

Back to the kitchen.   Whoooo Whoooo

Back to the stage. 

Adrian:  Fights harder to pull his hoof free but it is still caught. He kicks with his hind legs to increase the leverage. NAAA!  WAA!
Bobby:  Realizing the goat can't get free, he claps his hands to his cheeks and says:  "Uht oh, Adwian."
He said it with a rising inflection on the Uht and dropped his voice on the oh.

Back to the kitchen.  WHOOOOO  WHOOOOO   Chuga-chuga Chuga-chuga   WHOOOO  WHOOOO

Back to the stage.

Bobby stares back in horror at the rapidly approaching train.

By now the "audience" is contributing to the train sound effects, pretending we can see it chugging through the kitchen, and shouting encouragement to Adrian.

Adwian twists his head back as far as it will go, considering his hoof/hand is caught in the railroad ties. He leaps into the air with his hind legs while Bobby pulls with all his strength.

BAA  WAA  BWAA

"PULL ADWAIN, PULL!"

WHOOOO, WHOOOO, WHOOOO

At the last second, Bobby jumps to safety while Adrian goes SPLAT!

The train rumbles past, right between my chair and the one my Mom is sitting in.

Bobby stands beside the railroad track and surveys the carnage.
 

My little brother almost managed to produce real tears as he wailed,  "OH, ADWIAN!"

I was mad.  A funny skit for kids should have a happy ending. While Mom and Dad applauded, I strode two steps to where the imaginary Adwian lay dead, gave him a good kick and hollered for him to get up.  I guess the moral of the story was to stay off railroad tracks.

For the rest of our childhood and decades on into adulthood, whenever the situation looked dire, (cattle out, flat tire, forgotten homework, something on the stove boiled over, a sock with a hole in the toe, even if it was only because our move got blocked in a board game) someone in our family would say, "Uht oh, Adwian."

My widowed grandmother re-married. One day at a family gathering, her husband burst out, "Who the heck is Adrian?" My brother and I fell all over each other laughing, then had to apologize because he thought we were laughing at him.

Here is the link to a variety of age-appropriate skits in case you weren't lucky enough to belong to the Scouts.
http://www.boyscouttrail.com/skits.asp