Mom's Daughters

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Mom really wanted daughters who never got dirty, who would wear the lacy and ruffled dresses she sewed for them, and who played with dolls and not trucks. It didn't quite work out that way for her.

Libby came much closer to the ideal daughter than I did. Dad built a little playhouse for us when we lived on the farm, and I played in it a little bit for a while, but Libby set up housekeeping in it with her dolls and tea set. Libby was always more comfortable in frills than I was, and when she was grown, retained a much more lady-like appearance than me. But driving the combine on her and Dave's farm and helping Dave in the hog barns didn't quite meet Mom's idea of feminine activities. But Libby came close.

On the other hand, I just couldn't quite manage to be the sweet feminine daughter Mom so wanted. I would wear the pretty dresses that she made for me. I wore them to church and whenever we had an occasion like a family wedding to attend. But as soon as these occasions were over, off came the frills and on came the jeans. I think I nearly drove her mad one summer when all I would wear were cut off jeans and Dad's old shirts. Not quite what she had in mind for me.

I came by this honestly, however. Dad was to blame. He thought that I should know how to do things other than cook and sew. So from the time I was very young, he let me "help" him when he had things to do outside of the house. Although I was too young to remember, he told me of a time when our family still lived in Blackduck and I was about three years old. I was "helping" him work on his car. He had his head under the hood, tinkering with something, when he heard a banging sound coming from the rear of the car. Upon investigating, he found me, rock in hand, bashing out the tail light. I was "helping." He was much more careful to keep an eye on me after that.

Mom said that early on she gave up trying to keep me in girly dresses, as I would go outside and head for the nearest mud puddle to make mud pies, or to the sandbox or some other not so clean place to play, which would result in stains and rips in those pretty little dresses. She said that Dad had the habit of scooping me up when he had to go uptown on some errand, and take me along. It didn't matter to him that I was grubby from playing. Off we would go, many times returning with evidence of a stop at the drug store for an ice cream cone all over my face. Mom said she was mortified just knowing that everyone she knew in Blackduck had seen her daughter looking, in her words, like a ragamuffin.

While living on the farm we were fortunate to have as playmates some of the Eddy children. Robert was just a year younger than me, and once in a while when we were about 10 or 11 years old, he and I would take off on some adventure. I remember one occasion when upon returning home after one of these adventures, my conversation with Mom went something like this:

Mom: "Where were you. I have been calling you for hours."
Me: "Robert and I were out in the pasture catching frogs."
Mom: "Why didn't you answer me?"
Me: "Cuz then we went over to the ditch to catch crayfish. But we didn't catch any."
Mom: "So what is that stuff all over your feet?"
Me: Well, we came back through the cow pasture looking for frogs, but there weren't any, so we were squishing cow pies with our feet."

I recall getting hosed off with the garden hose outside and then a bath, with lots of bubble bath to get rid of the smell. Mom was not pleased. I was forbidden to play with Robert for a while, and was banished from the cow pasture forever after.

Dad continued to teach me things other than household chores. I can paint a house, mow a lawn, wield a screwdriver and hammer, use power tools, and change a tire on a car. All of which have come in handy over the years. Dad also taught me how to fish. Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon he would load his old boat motor in the trunk of the car and off we would go to rent a boat and spend the afternoon fishing. I still love to fish, and enjoy the peacefulness of being out on a lake in the spring or fall. In the spring we would sometimes see mamma ducks with their babies swimming all in a row, and in the fall we listened to the loons and watch them dive to resurface far from their entry point. Once in a while Dad would spot a deer on shore. Life just didn't get much better, fishing with Dad.

Dad also taught me how to shoot a gun. Hunting was second nature to him, as it was one way that his family kept meat on the table. He first showed me how to use his .22 rifle, stressing that I needed to pay attention and know at all times where the bullet was going, preferably not towards anything that might suffer damage, like the house or our neighbors. Often I would take his gun into the woods behind the house on the farm and target shoot tin cans or bottles. Then I decided I wanted to shoot his big 12 gauge shotgun. He didn't think that was such a good idea, as I was only about 12 years old at the time, and not all that big. But I insisted and persisted until he took me back in the woods along with the shotgun. He asked me if I was sure I wanted to shoot it. You see where this is going, don't you. Yes, I shot the gun, and yes, I landed on my backside in the dirt from the recoil. And yes, my shoulder was purple for a few days after. Lesson learned. I never did go hunting. Although I love venison, I just could never stand the thought of killing anything, so my shooting was limited to targets.

While Mom didn't get in me a daughter who enjoyed ruffles and lace, she did get a daughter who still enjoys the things she taught me; sewing, embroidery, cooking and baking. And thanks to Dad, I can fix things that break and have a fondness for a lazy afternoon of fishing. Not too bad for a daughter.