Prairie Childhood – A Memoir By Anna M. Nickol, Chapter Two

Read Chapter 1 here

There came days when Mother walked the floor, wringing her hands, while our father tried reasoning with her, and reassuring her. It was no use. Our young uncle was away working and no word had come from him for months. He was rumored to be hauling dynamite for construction work at the Valier flume. Mother was sure some accident had befallen him and that we’d never see him again.

She knew that Hans could neither read nor write but she didn’t consider such handicaps sufficient reason for the failure to make occasional reports.

At last Dad borrowed a saddle (he usually rode bareback) and cinched it onto Lucy, the red mare. It was seventy miles, more or less, to the construction site. He was back the next day.

He had stopped at the first construction camp to inquire. No one there had ever heard of our uncle. He stopped in line camps; it was the same story. At last he began to describe his brother-in-law. His description brought results.

“Oh, you mean Glory,” said one informant. “He’s around here somewhere…been hauling dynamite. He got drunk awhile back and had a runaway. You can’t kill Glory. The wagon tipped and scattered dynamite a half mile but Glory never got a scratch.”

He pushed on to another camp and asked for Glory. The man was as unknown by that name as by his more formal title. Heads were shaken. Men were sorry to be unable to help. Again, Dad described his man.

“You must mean Friday,” one man grinned. “Queer feller….never eats meat on Fridays. He’s around here some place. Just ask for Friday.” He was around, and shortly, was found. The long ride, only half over, had abraded Father’s temper. He made a few trenchant suggestions about keeping in touch and left at once.

His annoyance hadn’t burned out through the long hours of his ride home. I can still recall his disapproving remarks about the uncivilized company our uncle kept and the unchristian nicknames which had so far replaced the good, solid name conferred with baptism. This intolerance for nicknames was almost a fetish with Dad. He accepted shortened forms which usage had long established in place of common names. But nicknames were taboo, and that a man should be known as “Friday,” in mild derision of his religious practices, was an insult to religion. Dad never quite forgot (nor forgave) that ride and the revelations it brought him.*

It probably was the Christmas of 1912 or 1913 that stands out in my memory as the first Yule of my remembrance. We had a tree and it would have touched the ceiling had our house boasted such a luxury. It stood about center from east to west and close to the north wall where the eaves ended only six or seven feet above the ground.

Our beds were banished to the west end of the shack beyond white muslin curtains, our mother’s extra sheets. The house was fragrant with holiday foods seldom tasted in other seasons, and evergreen. The lady who had tidied up after Fred’s birth was invited, with her family, for supper and the evening. What dispositions were made for that many people in a fourteen-by-twenty shack, I don’t remember. I do remember they were there: a pleasant-faced woman and her bluff, good-natured husband; the teen-aged boys, Henry and Oliver, their younger sisters, Mable and Helen and Molly. Archie, a boy somewhat older than Lee, and two smaller children, Harold and Eleanor. Probably, our young aunt and uncle were there, though I don’t remember specifically; and, of course, our parents and the five of us.

After supper the children sat on the floor and sang Christmas carols while the grownups listened and talked in low voices. Our mother never left the tree while candles were burning on it, and I can remember several occasions when she smothered a fire with her bare hands. But she liked having the tree alight and she let the candles burn low before putting out their blaze. When the kerosene light was turned high again, Mother went to the tree to distribute gifts. There was something for everyone….an apple, a gingerbread man, a conical foil candy basket. I remember that Helen, who was then about twelve, received a four-inch piece of green and white ribbon candy.

I mentioned Archie, a middle-sized child in that large family. His parents, the Omholts**, kept the post office, which was named for them, and so they knew all the neighbors. Archie’s mother and mine were fast friends and visiting between the two houses was frequent and cordial.

To me, Archie was far more important than the President of the United States and smarter than anyone except my father. I followed Archie around and went with him when he went out to milk the cow. He didn’t mind. He had a broad, good-natured grin, and he talked to me. I admired his skilled manipulation of the sources of milk supply. “When I’m older,” I told him confidentially, “I will learn to milk a cow.

“Don’t do it,” he advised, laughing at me. “You’ll never get away from it again.”

Out of context, may I remark: Archie was wrong. I did learn to milk a cow, and milked a good many of them for many years. But it was always voluntarily done, and for the pattern of life we had then, I’d cheerfully do it yet.

To get back to Archie: my admiration for him took in everything he did, and one story concerning it came down through the years, though, often enough, when I hear it told (“What? Again?”), I would have committed mayhem had my parents permitted that form of self expression.

Archie had hitched his family’s school pony to the cart and taken me for a ride. We made a half mile or so in a wide circle around the buildilngs. When I got home that night, I was still bursting with importance. “Archie’s a good driver, you know, you know,” I announced wisely, “but them Underdahls*** aint, because they always say “tch, tch, tch.” I was never allowed to forget a word of it. I knew I was maturing, when I could hear it without anger and with a touch of wry amusement.

*In spite of his dislike of nick-names, especially those above listed, the mother’s brother here named “Hans,” was baptized, “John.” Why he was called “Hans” I never learned or understood.

**The Omholts also had “The Omholt School,” the local grade school, named after them. It existed until World War II when it was moved east several miles to become a home to another set of neighbors, the Emrersons and, finally, the Solids. “The Nickol School, U.S. District 23,” was constructed one half mile south of where the Omholt School originally existed, on the same side of the county road, after the war. That school building still stands although all its playground equipment has been removed.

***The Underdahl’s were one of two Scandinavian families of the same name who then lived several miles east of the Nickol homestead. Interestingly, during a recent trip to that community, my family and I visited the graves of those early Norwegian homesteaders interred in the cemetery at the local Saint Olaf Church. One of the last Underdahls left that area last year. For some reason….probably because the Underdahls were better farmers and the Nickols were jealous of them….there existed a somewhat-less-than-good-natured rivalry between the two families.

Prairie Childhood, A Memoir By Anna M. Nickol – Chapter One

Editors note: We hope you enjoy this story by Anna M. Nickol (1909-2005) about her family’s homestead in Toole County, MT. E-City Beat will publish the story a chapter at a time as they become available from Anna’s nephew Greg Nickol as he transcribes from the original book publication.

Prairie Childhood, a Memoir by Anna M. Nickol

Chapter One

It was a long way from the naked earth of our November yard to the spring seat of a wagon fitted out with box and top box.  I was smaller than the average “long” two-year-old and still under the half-way mark between two and three.

I stood in the grainy, unwarmed dust and waited while my brother Lee and two sisters, all older than I, climbed up the brake shoes and into the wagon.

There were five grownups in the fourteen-by-twenty homestead shack, a few short steps from where the wagon and team waited: my parents, my mother’s younger brother and sister, and a tall neighbor who also been a neighbor of ours in Minnesota, a year and a half before.

I recognize this information as deduction and the aid granted me by the memories of other people.  My own memory embraces standing beside the wagon, waiting, while the already gentled team of cayuse dozed, the driving lines snug around the hub of a front wheel.

It was November 26, 1911.  Any memories of Minnesota that I might have had were already gone.  Within the next few years I was to hear my brother and sisters comparing notes on their memories of our former home: of the larger, rough boy who would take Lee riding in his toy wagon, only to turn a sharp corner unexpectedly and spill his screaming passenger in the road.  Or a teenage girl name Mat Hilda, who would rejoice my sisters with glimpses of her finery.  As to me, my Minnesota infancy was forever a sealed book.  In the years to come, my earliest memory was always of the November day I stood beside the wagon, waiting in fear from some event I couldn’t understand.

The tall neighbor came out of the house and spoke to me jovially.  He placed his brown hands lightly under my arms and swung me up, up into the spring seat.  I sat motionless, completely petrified by being up there so high, alone.

Why hadn’t he put me in the box in back, with my brother and sisters?  What if I should fall?

My young aunt came out of the house and, with some assistance from our neighbor, climbed up into the spring seat beside me.  Our neighbor swung himself up into the seat, and we rode away.  Where were we going?  Why weren’t our parents with us?

We didn’t go far.  I knew the place, even then, for it was a mere quarter of a mile away and in full sight of our home.  It was a much smaller homestead shack which belonged to the neighbor who took us there.  He helped us out of the wagon, our young aunt with us, and left immediately.

Later, I was to learn from my aunt that when he returned to our home, he mounted one horse, our uncle the other, and they rode in opposite directions, in search of a midwife whose services had been spoken for.  My uncle had been to her home and back, which probably explained why the team was hitched, while our elders conferred on the next move.  Both the young men were unmarried and possible embarrassed by their mission.  But they did their best, futilely.

For us, the adventure was interesting and pleasant, if a little too prolonged.  Our neighbor was a cheerful, wry young man.  His walls were prepared with picture postcards from girls, some of them celebrated, beauteous and bosomy blondes, and on these he had centered his target practice in his hours of boredom.  He would like on his bed with a .22 rifle and test his aim.  At times it was excellent.

This, among other observations I shall make of him and his shack, came later.  I do remember the picture postcards from that day and his sag-springed bed on which we were allowed to play as much as we liked.  This memory must have been fixed by the fact of our mother’s unwavering prohibition against romping on beds.  After all, she washed that bedding frequently, in water carried or hauled in a barrel on a stone boat from a reservoir a quarter of a mile distant, in roughly the opposite direction from our home.  Our neighbor carried his water supply a half mile but he was less fastidious.

His sanitary arrangement was unique.  It consisted of two walls, one to the north, the other to the west, out of respect for the prevailing winds and his nearest neighbors.  A log about six inches in diameter was spiked across the hypotenuse of the walls and at a convenient seating height.  One felt a greater security, at least, from the fact that there was no pit to fall in.  But being taken to it was a fearful adventure for a young child.

His refrigerator was a small wooden box nailed under the eaves at the northeast corner of his shack.  Morning and evening in summer were the only times the sun reached that far, and in those hours it wasn’t strong enough to warm the box.  His butter kept very well.

Another early memory is of being lifted by my six-year-old sister so I could see a fly-catcher’s white eggs, in a grass next in that box, another pleasant memory.

The day wore on and we wanted to go home.  Our aunt assured us we must wait until someone came for us.  So, wait we did, and I can’t recall the hour of our return.  When we did, everything was strange.  We were cautioned to be quiet so as not to awaken our new baby brother who looked small to us, though the grownups said he weighed twelve pounds.  Our mother was in bed, and a pleasant-faced neighbor who me we knew from earlier visits was bustling about.

My aunt told me later that our brother had been born some time before the midwife came, though after we were grown and we met the lady again, she assured us that she had delivered Fred.  But he was a sixth child and probably needed no help making his advent into this world, just tidying up after.  This could have been what she meant.

It was during one of these earliest years that our father pastured a gray stallion in the “forty” which remained as grass land, just west of the house.  Garden, well, and new reservoir (whose dam covered the test hole for a well on which the men were working when the ladies struck water) were a part of the forty but divided from the sod by a double strand, barbed wire fence.  In spring, water was backed by the dam into the pasture and animals kept there had access to it.  We were, of course, doubly cautioned to stay out of the pasture and away from that stallion.

One lovely late spring day, Sue and I discovered that the slope above the shallow end of the reservoir and just inside the pasture was carpeted with white daisies.  We stood outside the fence and wished.  By and by, we noticed that the stallion was almost as far away as forty acres would permit.  He was gracing quietly, close to the mail box, which was set on a post of the west fence.  He wasn’t even facing our way.

We ducked under the barbed wire and began picking daisies as fact as four small hands could grab and pull, when we heard thundering hooves and looked up to see the stallion hurrying to investigate something new.  Never did two little girls move faster.  Sue was older, so she reached the fence first.  I was so anxious to be back on the safe side of the fence that I straightened up too soon and tore a four-inch angle in the back of my dress.  And how was I explain that to my mother?

The Hoffmans* had a second stallion, red, named Casey.  He was pastured on the school section east of us, a pasture Mother had to cross when she went to visit Mrs. Hoffman.  That lady’s friendliness and kindness won my mother’s lasting loyalty.

We picked mushrooms for her when she came to see us and she taught mother how to recognize the edible ones and how to cook them.  She approved our new dam, in its second year, because it was quickly grassed over.  “It won’t wash out,” she predicted.  “It has good growth on it.”  She was right.  It’s still there.

After we at last had Pet, the buckskin mare, she became a handy cart horse.  One day I sat in the basket of the “road cart” while mother went to visit Mrs. Hoffman.  She stopped to open the wire gate and looked all around, anxiously, before driving the mare through.  She was talking more to herself than to me when she muttered something about hoping that Casey wouldn’t see us cross the pasture.  He didn’t.  But each time she crossed, she kept Pet going a smart pace so as to angle that section in as little time as anything less than a race horse could hope to do it.  Pet didn’t mind.  She never seemed aware of Casey’s existence.

Two and a half miles away, northeast, lived the “old time” family from whom our father had bought his horses.  He had an eye for horse flesh and skill for its shaping.  He bought a pair of matched grays, mare and gelding, whom he named Daisy and Dash.  The neighbor assured us that Dash already had a name.  He was Soogan.  Soogan he remained until his death many years later, though our mother considered it a barbarian appellation.  But a Soogan he might have become, if, at the time of the horse’s death, Dad had had the twenty dollars’ fee for having the hid made into a robe.  He didn’t, and the robe was forfeit.

The other team was mare and gelding, too, a beautiful nervous red mare and a sorrel gelding with a wide, white face and four white stockings.  They were Lucy and Bally.  Bally had been broken to ride in the spring of 1909, during roundup.  He was too young and was forever after sway-backed but he was endlessly good-natured, if lazy, and he was to be trusted with children a great many times in his long, long life.

With the purchase of horses for farm work, our father received as a bonus an old white horse named Frank.  He had been a children’s horse and was imperturbable.  In the summer of 1912, my older brother, my sisters, and I hauled water from the reservoir a quarter of a mile away.  I have no recollection of doing any of the work and suspect that my oldest sister did most of it.  But the rest of us went along and probably lent her moral support.

One day Leed said, “Bet you don’t dare run under Frank’s belly.”

“Betcha I do!” I crowed, and did it before Clare** could offer objection.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have, anyway.  She, also, was all but imperturbable.

As the patient, steady old horse leaned into the chest strap and tightened up the tugs. Lee challenged again:  “Betcha don’t dare go under him while he’s walking!”

“Betcha I do!” I responded smartly, and as Frank plodded up the hill, I dashed through between his weary feet.  I scarcely had to duck my head.  Frank probably stepped a little more carefully, for he never touched me; and though my timid heart beat faster, I had triumphed over a dare.

It was Frank’s last summer.  As he tottered into a pathetic decline, becoming feeble and hopelessly lousy, our father led him “over the hill” so we wouldn’t have to witness the deed, and put a merciful bullet through his brain.  I heard the shot.  For years thereafter, we had no riding horse.

The need for a household horse (since one of the work horses had been broken to the saddle before he’d ever been hitched to a plow), had lessened, since at no time, until they were successful, did my parents stop testing for a well.  There was a test hole at the north extremity of our “house lot,” an acre casually enclosed by a barbed wire fence.  If kids strayed within that boundary, they were in no danger of being run over by the work horses, in the daily tripos from water to the barn.  Theoretically, kids stayed within those limits, at least during certain hours of the day.  Of course, they were forbidden to lift the rock which closed the test hole.

Our memory of rules was faulty.  We pushed or lifted, according to our strength, individually or collectively, this keystone of a familiar and beloved danger, as often as we could be reasonably sure we weren’t being observed, and gazed down into those fearsome depths….or at least we did until removal of the rock revealed only a bowl-shaped depression.  Winter caused the slender shaft to cave in and close forever the mysterious depths.

One day, when all alone, I lifted the rock and found a scorpion under it.  I didn’t know what it was but among all the things one finds under rocks, I liked it least.  So I never looked under that particular stone again.

So much for the test hole.  Another I remember was across the coulee to the west and almost to the top of the hill.  Soon after, the coulee was dammed and the reservoir still exists though it is often dry in the latter parts of the intervening summers.  The west end of the dam closed and forever covered that test hole, which was the work of our father, Mother’s brother, and the neighbor in whose house we waited for Fred’s birth.  Before the men had quite given up on their disappointing drill work, Mother and her sister sang out: “Water!” and men and children came running to see.

The well*** still exists and supplies a household.  It was too far from the original house to be convenient, though it certainly was preferable to the reservoir some three times the distance, down the coulee.  After the well was put into service, everybody carried water.  Neighbors who lived at a distance of a mile or more carried their drinking water from that well.  In time, we had another horse and another stone boat, and again, kids hauled water up the hill.

*The Hoffmans ranched at the mouth of a large coulee, north of the Nickol homestead, on the Marias River.  Known since as “The Hoffman Coulee,” it was home to a horse ranch that raised mounts for the U.S. Cavalry, through World War I.  Until the construction of Tiber Dam in the mid nineteen-fifties, and the home’s final destruction, there existed what seemed in those days, a huge mansion whose parlor supported a decrepit Steinway square grand piano, one of its legs broken, probably by a cow.

**Clare was the second oldest Nickol child.  The oldest, Anna Kunegunda (this name the 6,000,947th most popular name in the world), died at birth and his buried in the Spring Hill Catholic Cemetery, Spring Hill, Minnesota.

***Although the well, the only one for many miles thereabouts, may again be “wet,” it went dry several years ago and was replaced by the Tiber Rural Water System.

Where’s The Beef – Madison Food Park?

I moved to southwest Kansas in the early nineteen-seventies as that area (Garden City, Dodge City and Liberal) experienced an economic boom based on the growth and influx of cattle feed lots, slaughter-houses and beef transport facilities.  Like present day Montana, Finney, Ford and Seward, Kansas counties had just one major export….their young people, most of them leaving for better employment opportunities elsewhere. 

Long past were the tourism days of Boot Hill and Dodge City’s famous Front Street and, even the then modern businesses surrounding what were once considered enhanced agricultural-production techniques including over-fertilization, extreme irrigation, and pesticide abuse, had begun to fade, mostly because of the then-already-depleted Ogallala Aquifer and the already increasing electricity costs required to operate the irrigation pumps then in use.

Like Great Falls today, southwestern Kansas was experiencing no-growth stagnancy with regard to population and business.  While all of this was going on big cities around the country….Chicago, Omaha, Des Moines, Dallas and Fort Worth, to name a few, were limiting or taxing out of business their major meat packing companies.  The three southwest Kansas communities just mentioned offered tax incentives and abatements to encourage those big packers to move to that area.  With them came what once was considered “minority” population growth.  Dodge City went from approximately 2% Hispanic population to more than 50%, and even though many quality Mexicans moved there, even more left Mexico, illegally immigrating into the United States, imagining to have left their legal and social problems behind.  Dodge City, Garden City and Liberal, for the most part, didn’t receive or welcome what proved not-to-be-Mexico’s-finest.

We gained at least part of our population from illegal immigrants who were ex-convicts, mental patients, scofflaws and outlaws.  Dodge City’s Naturalization and immigration Service was years behind managing the amazing influx of, not just Hispanics but Cuban Boat People, Laotians and Vietnamese, all of them moving to Dodge, Garden and Liberal to work at what were then considered “high-paying” jobs.  Tent cities sprung up all over that part of the country; make-shift trailer parks built of previously abandoned and ancient mobile homes began to grow around the packing houses and feedlots, their room partitions removed so a greater number of people could sleep on their floors.  Criminal activity abounded everywhere.

“Integral to the declining life-style of that day’s southwest Kansas population was the extreme filth and foul odor that permeated every part of our community.  At that time, approximately 25,000 head were slaughtered daily in Dodge City’s then 3 major slaughter-houses.”

Integral to the declining life-style of that day’s southwest Kansas population was the extreme filth and foul odor that permeated every part of our community.  At that time, approximately 25,000 head were slaughtered daily in Dodge City’s then 3 major slaughter-houses.  These 25,000 head were also transported in huge semi-tractor-trailers through our town every day of the week, upon most of our major streets and highways, each of them slopping tons and tons of liquefied manure onto everything they passed, especially as they turned corners, slowed down, stopped, or regained movement.  Crossing South Second Avenue, where I worked, required overshoes twelve months of the year, if you didn’t want your boots, dress clothes or shoes redecorated.  Flies were everywhere and the stench of rotting manure and cooking blood permeated the entire area.  Huge centrifuges separated the blood from water, turning the blood into meal.  In the morning, everything in town was covered with a ruddy-colored dust.

A major problem then as well as now is the provision of adequate water supply to constantly bathe the kill floors of these packing houses to remove manure, hay, straw, dirt and filth that enter with the cattle.  The Ogallala Aquifer, once the life-blood of Southwest Kansas, began to decline, its level lowering so drastically that towns and population bases on the outside of the aquifer no longer had adequate water supplies.  Car washes, laundromats and, in some cases, underground lawn sprinklers or farm field irrigation could no longer be utilized.  And the Arkansas River, once a major tributary of the Mississippi as it flowed eastward from Colorado through Kansas on its way to Oklahoma and Arkansas, began to dry up.  The once stately Cottonwood trees that lined both sides of the river between Garden City and Dodge City and beyond, began to die out until, now, there’s no evidence that either river or trees were once predominate.  Water, still the lifeblood of those Southwestern Kansas communities, became a hugely marketable and profitable resource.

Throughout Southwestern Kansas are hundreds of feed-lots containing millions of cows, each of them fattened for their final trip to an area slaughter-house.  For 25 miles in every direction of each of these three Southwestern Kansas communities, the overwhelming stench of decaying, fermenting manure fills the air.  Roads and highways, worn beyond county and state ability to maintain them, are rough, dusty and manure-packed.  Cattle, like us, also have a natural mortality rate, probably aggravated by the rough treatment they receive during shipping and handling.  Many of them die before they make it to the slaughterhouse.  All over that part of our country are stacks of dead, bloated cattle carcasses, their legs sticking straight into the air, advertising their condition as they wait for National Bi-Products or some such other rendering or pet-food company to pick them up.  The smell of death is everywhere. 

In some ways our local economy was enhanced.  Hispanics, Vietnamese and Cuban Boat people drove cars and pickups like the rest of us.  Small used car lots began to appear everywhere and the largest new car dealers grew even larger, or so it seemed, although most of their growth was due to the demise of dealers less successful.  Buy-Here/Pay-Here lots were the main financing method so repossession companies also appeared out of no-where.  Title-pawn companies also began to appear, many of them dishonest.  Some of the  more successful immigrants got into service businesses…if your business used red rags, area rugs or rolled cloth towel machines, for instance, you began to trade with the people who distributed them, or if you hired custodial workers or low-income laborers, there were more-than-enough people to fill this need.  Hispanic and Vietnamese grocery stores began to abound as authentic Mexican food restaurants took over every abandoned filling station and barber shop. 

I owned a small car lot in Dodge City, similar to what I have today.  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t experience growth in business based on my Hispanic and Vietnamese trade, but there was a cost that came with it.  If I didn’t patronize their service businesses, I began to experience retaliatory vandalism and theft, and, if I didn’t go along with “the man” who delivered his “friends”, “co-workers”, and “relatives”, to me, I was eliminated from their “trade”.  I used to enjoy the most handsome, well-dressed Hispanic man I ever met, a man who repeatedly brought his friends, co-workers and relatives to my business.  Neither the Hispanics, nor the Vietnamese trusted American banks and bankers, so they generally appointed the most powerful and influential person, usually a man, from their group to act as their “banker.”  Since hardly any of these people spoke English, it was important to have a translator who could help us arrange business transactions.

Julian Medranio had been a carnival worker in Mexico, then became a prison guard and just before leaving Mexico became a policeman.  He was probably the most corrupt man I ever met in person.  He’d show up in a shiny black Cadillac purchased somewhere else, two or three white, blond prostitutes in the back seat, and the customer of the day up front.  Waving a fistful of cash, he’d tell that customer what vehicle he’d be driving home and, if the customer in any way resisted, he was beat to the ground in front of me, Julian careful not to scuff his $1100-a-pair Guccis or smudge his Cartier sunglasses. 

Julian’s main business was false identification.  At that time Dodge City was gaining 1,000 new Mexicans a month, most of them illegal aliens and unemployable for more than one reason.  Julian kept a Rolodex of illegal identification cards, Green cards, driver’s licenses and Social Security cards.  His business was selling these necessary to employment tools.  To get away with this he “played ball” with local law enforcement, turning in those who refused or who were, otherwise unable, to pay for new, necessary identification.

One time when I wholesaled a Chevy pickup to another used vehicle dealer in Dodge and was asked to leave the keys in the ignition so an employee of that business could pick it up, the vehicle was, instead, stolen….by an non-naturalized Mexican.  Law enforcement in Dodge had by that time already become a lot like law enforcement in many other areas…..they’d learned that their pay checks still cashed whether or not they subjected themselves and their families to danger, so did very little to assist property crimes.  The “man” to call was Julian Medrano.  I called him; he found my pickup, camouflaged in cardboard and cut tree limbs, in less than three hours.  He turned the non-naturalized Hispanic over to the Dodge City Police who turned him over to Naturalization and Immigration, who deported him back to Mexico.  Julian claimed the man’s attractive young Mexican wife, prostituted her, and took their two small children to be sold to those who’d pay for them.

Julian was constantly working on the fringes of the law and was constantly threatened with expulsion from our country.  One time, when deportation was imminent, I asked him what he was going to do.  Pulling out his Rolodex of illegal identification cards, he said, “I’ll be a new Mexican tomorrow!” 

My family lived on LaVista Avenue, across the street from one of Dodge City’s most prestigious areas.  We had apple and pear trees in our yard and enjoyed the fruit they produced, that is, until the Hispanic and Vietnamese population began to overtake us and, more than once, while were at church, our trees were stripped bare.  We enjoyed our church family at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church although we never did learn to understand all of the Spanish Mass as we steadily became “the minority.”

My wife, employed by the Dodge City School District, was the head of the local bilingual Program.  Because of problems within our school district, many of them caused by the multi-cultures we tried to integrate, we put our kids into safe, private schools.  Right before leaving Dodge City, one of my wife’s fourth grade students was murdered near the school where she taught at Wilroads Gardens.  We moved to Great Falls to escape all of this, to what we imagined would be a better life.  With the Madison Food Park it looks like our lives are starting over again.