Hometown Hoedown

Hometown Hoedown With Linda Broday

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Although I wasn’t born here, I consider Wichita Falls, Texas to be my hometown. You see, I called it home for thirty-eight years—married, had three children, buried two husbands, and became a writer. So, I have a long history with the town that gave me so much. Let me tell you a little about it.

This northern Texas town sits fifteen miles from the Oklahoma line on the Wichita River. It was platted in July 1976 on land where a group of settlers already had homes. One family made a living hauling buffalo hides and had a long history in the area.

COMANCHERIA

We get our name from the Wichita Indians living in the area that also had some waterfalls. However, the natural waterfalls later washed away in a flood and artificial ones were built many years later in 1987. The Spanish called these lands Comancheria because they were controlled by the Comanche Indians. We have a very long history with the Comanches.

A VISONARY

Joseph A. Kemp (c._1917) Wikimedia Commons

One man had a vision of prosperity here—Joseph Kemp. You might say he was our founding father. Kemp, a businessman who always looked for opportunity, arrived with his family in 1883 after the Fort Worth and Denver Railroad arrived the year previous. Kemp wasted no time in opening the J.A. Kemp Wholesale Grocery and got a contract to furnish supplies to the Indian Reservation at Fort Sill in Indian Territory as well as to ranchers and settlers. He did over $1 million dollars worth of business annually and cemented Wichita Falls as a trade center.

Frank Kell, Kemp’s brother-in-law, arrived around 1885. Together, the two men became pioneers in retail food and processing, flour milling, railroads, cattle, banking, and oil. The town owes it’s success to these giants who were progressive thinkers.

BANK ROBBERY

On the afternoon of February 25, 1896, two outlaws robbed the City National Bank and killed the clerk. They made off with $410 and hid in a thicket outside of town. The Texas Rangers tracked them down and brought them back to town the next day. However, the angry townsfolk dragged them from the jail and hung them from a lamp post in front of the bank. The pair was buried in the local cemetery in the same grave, instead of separately.

(As a side note, Jesse James’ sister, Susan Parmer, is also buried in the same cemetery. I’ve visited both of these gravesites.)

TORNADOS

The town experienced two violent tornados—the first in 1964 that killed 7 people and left over a hundred wounded; the second was a massive one in 1979 in which 42 people died and 1,800 wounded.

The historic second one, April 1979, left 20,000 people homeless. We still call it Terrible Tuesday. I lived through this with my husband and three children and became one of the 20,000. While the tornado was horrific and wiped out every single thing we had, the aftermath was far worse. We were lucky to have survived with only scrapes and bruises, but the destruction and trauma left behind was indescribable. We had no place to live for a long time and simply shifted around between with various family for short periods until they got tired of us. My two oldest slept in all their clothes, down to their shoes, for about the first year. Their school was destroyed so they doubled up in others and only went half days. I would get calls almost every day telling me to come get them because they wouldn’t stop crying. The counselors who provided therapy were little help. We all suffered from PTSD although we didn’t know what to call it. My youngest was just a baby so has no memory, thank goodness. We were so lucky. It’s a memory that haunts me to this day. The sound, the horrible stench, the raw fear as the roof came down, burying us, is something I’ll live with for the rest of my life.

Wichita Falls is home to the large Sheppard Air Force Base, Midwestern State University, and over 100,000 people. Our governor, Gregg Abbott, was born here as well as Phil McGraw and Larry McMurtry plus rodeo & TV stars, race car drivers, and so many others.

I became a New York Times bestselling author here and will always remember the many kindnesses and generosity shown during my years as one of its citizens.

What are some of the things your town is known for? I’ll give away a $15 Amazon gift card to one commenter. 

Hometown Hoedown – Mary Connealy – And a Giveaway

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The Something-est Something

Have you noticed that all towns have a claim to fame?

All towns are the something-est Something.

I realized this years ago when we drove past a billboard somewhere in … Texas maybe?

Directing us to leave the interstate at the next exit to visit Wherever -The Home of the World’s Largest Bumblebee.

And I thought, That town is looking for a claim to fame. It’s looking for the World’s Largest or the Second Oldest, or the first … popcorn grown in America….I don’t know. But SOMETHING

I live near the Second Oldest Settlement in Nebraska. Note the qualifiers…not oldest. Not town (settlement is different than TOWN).

ASIDE…Have you noticed that you don’t get much pushback when you claim to be second? Most beautiful site in the world? Grand Canyon? Old Faithful? Niagara Falls? Mt. Everest? Lots of arguments on that. but the SECOND? Nobody cares. Everyone who thinks They are the most beautiful just think Yeah, not better than us but still real nice.

Not older than us, but still real old.

So we picked second oldest and nobody’s called a cop to strip us of that title.

Then they use that claim to fame as an excuse to build a visitor’s center, have a summer town festival and/or build a big sign.

Next town over? Swedish Capitol of Nebraska (there are four who claim that)–Sweden has chosen not to get involved.

On down the road…the Home of (gosh, who was it? had to google it), John Neihardt…famous author (okay, famous-ish).

Towns work hard to figure out a reason you should come and visit. Some towns are easy…hey, you can see Niagara Falls from our town…some of us have it a little harder.

So my town is Nebraska’s Second Oldest Settlement and, something NOT boasted about. Stephen Decatur, who founded that town (seriously, his boat ran aground on a low spot in the river and started trading…or maybe he ran a ferry across the river…some dispute about that….that’s a settlement, I guess) He was a SCOUNDREL.

His name was NOT Stephen Decatur…lied about that. He was a married man who faked his own death by running off to war, then letting his wife believe he died. He moved to Decatur, started a trading post/ferry, married again…then when things got tough, he abandoned HER, went to Colorado, helped found the town of Georgetown, Colorado, married AGAIN…I based my series Brothers in Arms about him…trust me…when the truth got in the way of my story…I just started making things us. Plus all the names and locations are changed to protect me from having to write the strict truth…which is often short and boring,

The Beauty of Writing Fiction.

And no one knew because you couldn’t exactly run his ID through the computer when he applied for a marriage license.

It was a different time.

But anyway, the town survived his nonsense and Now, every summer, we have River Front Days to celebrate being Nebraska’s second oldest settlement.

Leave a comment to get your name in a drawing for a signed copy of Riches Beyond Measure...tell me what YOUR town’s claim to fame is. You know you have one…or think of one you’ve heard of. There are three towns that claim to be the Home of the World’s Largest Ball of Twine. I’ve personally seen the World’s Largest Popcorn Ball–trust me, it’s huge. And I’ve heard of The Home of the World’s Largest Cheeto,

AND does anyone know where to find the home of the World’s Largest Bumblebee? I promise I’ve googled it. There’s a statue in Canada called that but I know I wasn’t in Canada. It’s a mystery. And is the Alberta Statue life sized? Because even if it is the World’s Largest Bumblebee…it’s still really small.

https://www.maryconnealy.com/

Hometown Hoedown – Boys Town! by Pam Crooks

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I was born in Omaha, Nebraska, and one of my earliest memories was going to visit my uncle at Boys Town where he was a young priest at the time. My parents would load us up in the car, and we would drive down the highway and into the country, past acres of corn fields, until we reached the sprawling farm land of Boys Town.

In that random way of how certain memories from many years ago remain vivid, I remember my uncle’s apartment, which was quite nice. We lovingly called him Father Louie, and his furniture was the blonde wood from the late 50s and early 60s. But I especially remember that he spoiled us with ice cream sundaes and assorted toppings, a treat my mother never indulged us, which is probably why it’s still a fond memory to this day.

Father Flanagan

A few years later, we moved to western Nebraska, where I lived until the late 1980s. After I was married and had four daughters, we moved back to Omaha. It was during those years that Boys Town changed the most, and it is still evolving to this day as a powerhouse for medical care and mental health support for children and families.

It took me awhile to appreciate Boys Town, Fr. Flanagan, and his/their work with young boys, and later, young girls.  Their move toward homes run by family teachers was hugely consequential and up-ended the norms of the foster care system.  That is certainly a subject for another day, but in order to appreciate Boys Town, understanding its humble beginnings is a must.

HISTORY

Edward J. Flanagan was born premature in 1886 in Ireland to a devout, working-class farm family.  It’s said that after little Edward’s birth, fearing he would die, his grandfather cradled him against his body, inside his shirt, and rocked him all night long in front of the fire. It’s believed this loving care is what saved Baby Edward’s life.

Flanagan emigrated to the United States in 1904, pursued his priestly studies, and was ordained in Austria in 1912.

Returning to America, he was assigned to the Diocese of Omaha, Nebraska, where he became especially moved by the hopelessness of men who’d lost jobs, homes, and families.  Ironically, this first assignment was at St. Patrick’s Church, where Father Louie would eventually become pastor decades later.

In 1916, in a run-down mansion, he took these men in, found them jobs, and as he lived among them, realized that many of them were neglected as children.  This fueled his passion to conquer delinquency of young boys who were pathetically poor, many orphaned and living on the streets.

In 1917, with $90 he borrowed from a friend, he rented a house and took in five boys, the first of many he would eventually care for.  Believing “there’s no such thing as a bad boy,” Father Flanagan provided each with a nurturing home environment, education, job skills, and a focus of God in their lives.

It didn’t take long before they outgrew the house.  In 1921, he purchased a farm ten miles west of Omaha, which remains today as the permanent site for Boys Town.

Dowd Chapel at Boys Town

In time, he became an international figure, recognized by world leaders. In 1938, the blockbuster film Boys Town was released, starring Spencer Tracy as Father Flanagan and Mickey Rooney as one of the boys.  The movie went on to win an Academy Award.

Father Flanagan’s Tomb at Dowd Chapel

While on a mission in Europe, Father Flanagan died of a heart attack in Germany in 1948.  He was buried at Dowd Memorial Chapel in Boys Town (where I have attended Mass many times).  In continuation of his beloved legacy, the Catholic Church and countless thousands are prayerfully pursuing his sainthood.

Wouldn’t that be something?

And remember my drive into the country to visit Boys Town as a little girl?  Those corn fields have long-since been lost to Omaha’s urban sprawl, and million-dollar homes, apartments, and office buildings have been built on those acres.

Boys Town, Nebraska, however, remains as the headquarters for Father Flanagan’s mission with a beautiful, sprawling campus, including a lake.  Indeed, he probably wouldn’t recognize the farm that once had such humble beginnings, thanks to those who have ardently carried on his work.

Then again, I suspect he would never have suspected his work would continue throughout America, not only in Family Homes but also top-notch research facilities and clinics.  His work in Social Reform continues as a model globally in transitioning youth behavior into responsible, successful adulthood.

Highly Recommend:

Pam at Boys Town Monument

The Heart of a Servant, available for a nominal fee on Amazon Prime Video. 

It’s really cool that one of the stars of the documentary is Jonathan Roumie of “The Chosen” fame, and Fr. Steven Boes, once the director of Boys Town, and now the Senior Associate Pastor at my parish.

Boys Town, starring Spencer Tracy and Mickey Rooney, also available on Amazon Prime Video.  

 

Father Flanagan is revered throughout the world, but especially here in Omaha.  If you ever travel to Omaha, I heartily invite you to visit Boys Town.  There’s so much to see and learn!

Have you visited Omaha before? 

Are you familiar with Boys Town?  Father Flanagan? 

Hometown Hoedown – Winnie Griggs

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Hi, Winnie Griggs here and it’s my turn to tell you a little bit about my hometown, Marrero, Louisiana.

My childhood playground was on the edge of a bayou. While other kids had swing sets, my siblings and I had secret hideouts in the weeds, shed snakeskins to collect and scare each other with, and treasure in the form of shells and bits of petrified wood. Growing up in Marrero, in the mid-1950s and 60s felt like living in a world all our own—a place where bayous framed our extended backyard, shell-covered streets smelled faintly of the river, and community was at the heart of everything. Looking back, I realize just how much those years shaped me—through moments of adventure, challenges, and celebration.

Life in the “Back of Beyond”

I was born and raised in Marrero, Louisiana, just across the river from New Orleans. But we lived on the outskirts, near the Lafitte/Bayou Barataria area, which at the time was extremely rural. I was about six when we moved there, the oldest of three siblings (two more would come along later).

There were more vacant lots than homes in our “neck of the woods,” and my siblings and I, along with a couple of neighbor friends, used those fields, overgrown with brush and edged by the bayou, as our personal playground. We’d build hideouts and forts, chase each other through the tall grass, and pretend we were explorers in uncharted territory. We’d search for buried treasure and find it in the form of unusual rocks, shells, or even shed snakeskin. The bayou itself was both familiar and a bit mysterious, an ever-changing backdrop that helped fuel our childhood adventures.

Our school bus stop was two blocks from our house next to a deep ditch, and since we were the very last stop on the route, most of our classmates thought we lived “in the back of beyond.” Visiting us was always a bit of a trek, so it was a rare treat to play host!

Did you have a favorite childhood playground—maybe something wilder than the usual backyard?

 

Shell Streets and Summers on the Gulf

In our neighborhood, even the streets had their own unique character. They weren’t paved with asphalt or layered with rocks but covered with shells dredged from nearby Lake Pontchartrain. Whenever the parish spread a fresh layer, the streets looked grimy and smelled fishy for days, a scent that somehow became part of the fabric of our lives.

Whenever those fresh shells were dumped, my brother and some of his friends would comb through them, searching for spent .50 caliber cartridges. These were relics from World War II training flights, when aircraft practiced over the lake and ejected their shells into the water. Each time, the boys would usually find a few—maybe three or four—and whoever was lucky enough to find one claimed it as a prized trophy. My sister and I, on the other hand, wanted no part of it. To us, the shells were far too yucky to dig through, so we left that “treasure hunting” activity to the boys.

Riding bikes over those uneven, sharp-edged shells was a challenge, and when we were unlucky enough to fall off, the cuts would be both deep and painful – but we didn’t think much of it—it was just part of growing up. It did give us incentive to get very good at NOT falling off. 🙂

Of course, our world wasn’t limited to the neighborhood. Summers often took us farther afield—to the beaches and sometimes to my uncle’s camp in Grand Isle. The camp house, perched high on stilts and painted a bright Pepto-Bismol pink, felt like a happy fortress overlooking the Gulf of Mexico

Days were spent walking the beach, collecting shells, looking for crabs, or wading in the surf. I was particularly fascinated by little touloulous (what I later learned others outside Cajun country call fiddler crabs) scuttling in and out of their sand burrows.

I remember one particular afternoon while walking the beach, we spotted a sandbar shark gliding just beyond the shoreline. We weren’t in any real danger, but it certainly sent a shiver through us—and the story grew a little bigger and scarier every time we told it that summer.

When it got too hot, we played in the cool shade beneath the camp. At night, we kids slept on the screened-in porch, lulled to sleep by the sound of waves and insects, and feel of the Gulf breeze.

Do you have a special summer place that still feels magical when you think back on it?

 

Hurricanes and the Crazy Quilt

Of course, living in southern Louisiana also meant living with hurricanes. Two storms left a lasting impression on me—Hurricane Betsy (1965) and Hurricane Camille (1969). I vividly remember my dad boarding up the windows before the storm reached us, leaving the house eerily dark, and later the power going out.

During Betsy, my Aunt, Uncle and two cousins rode it out at our house. At one point the wind blew the front door open. My dad and uncle managed to get it closed again and shoved the sofa in front of it to brace it closed. They spent the rest of that night sitting on the sofa, listening closely to the news on a battery-operated transistor radio. Meanwhile, my mom gathered the rest of us into an interior hallway, away from the windows. To distract us, she brought out an old crazy quilt my grandmother made over 70 years ago. By flashlight, she’d name a patch—maybe a yellow-flowered rectangle or a green square with white flowers—and we’d hunt for it, competing to be the first to find it. All through that night we alternately prayed and played ‘hunt-the-patch’.

The howl of the wind and the thud of debris outside were frightening, but that quilt and my mom’s ingenuity turned the stormy night into something less terrifying. After the storm, there was always cleanup and repair, but what stuck with me most was the feeling of family—safe, together, and resilient.

Do you remember your first big storm or blackout as a child? How did your family pass the time?

 

Mardi Gras in Marrero

When people think Mardi Gras, they picture the grand, glittery and sometimes raucous New Orleans parades. But Marrero had its own celebration—the family-oriented Krewe of Poseidon parade, which rolled during daylight hours the Sunday before Mardi Gras.

My parent’s friend owned a laundromat on the route, and he let us park there and use it as our “base camp.” We’d set up chairs, eat the snacks Mom packed, visit with fellow parade goers, and wait for the excitement to begin. The air was alive with food smells, chatter, and the sound of marching bands warming up.

When the parade began, it was a mad scramble to catch beads, trinkets, and doubloons tossed from the floats. My siblings and I competed with friends and strangers alike, shouting, “Throw me something, mister!” Mardi Gras wasn’t just a party—it was a celebration of community, family, and pure fun.

I also have wonderful food memories tied to Mardi Gras. One of the iconic treats of the season was King cake, and it was always something we looked forward to with great anticipation.

And since Mardi Gras is the day before Lent begins, our family observed the tradition of no meat on Fridays during those forty-six days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday. That usually meant seafood—boiled or fried shrimp, shrimp po’boys, fried catfish, or a big pot of seafood gumbo. To be honest, I never saw it as the sacrifice it was meant to be—it all felt like a feast to me!

Have you ever experienced Mardi Gras—or another community parade? Or do you have a favorite seasonal food that brings back childhood memories?

Reflections on Growing Up in Marrero

Looking back, I realize how much my Marrero childhood shaped me. The bayou and the Gulf gave me wonder and respect for nature. Hurricanes taught me resilience and the value of family. Mardi Gras taught me the joy of celebration and the power of community.

Even now, the smell of shells, the sight of a faded patchwork quilt, or the sound of a marching band can take me back in an instant. Marrero might have felt like the “back of beyond” to some, but to me, it was the center of my world—a place full of adventure, love, and belonging. It’s a place I carry with me, no matter where I go.

Do you feel like the place where you grew up shaped who you are today? In what ways?

Leave a comment for your chance to win a signed copy of any of my books

Hometown Hoedown – Shanna Hatfield

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Howdy, friends!
It’s my turn to share a little about my hometown. I chose to write about the town that was my hometown all through my growing up years.

Vale, Oregon

Our farm was actually a dozen miles out of town, but  when I was a kid, getting to go to Vale was a much anticipated adventure. My family could be found there most every Sunday morning for church, and once I started piano lessons in first grade, Mom drove me once a week for my lesson. It gave her a chance to load up on groceries, and if time permitted, she’d go visit my aunt.

Vale is a small town (less than 2,000 population, although it was barely over 1,000 when I was in school), and like many old towns the two main streets through town are both one-way.  It’s the county seat, and I once performed with the school choir on the steps of the courthouse when the governor was visiting. It was spring and blustery, and I remember he asked me if I was cold after our performance. (I was playing the keyboard with the chilly breeze blowing up my skirt.)

Back when wagons were rumbling across the Oregon Trail, Vale was the first stop in Oregon for weary travelers. There was a natural hot spring there, and it was right on the banks of the river. It was a place travelers could stop and rest. A notable place then and now is Rinehart’s Stone House. In fact, many referred to the community as Stone House for years, until the town was incorporated as Vale. The house became a wayside stop for travelers until the early 1900s. It was a stage stop where travelers could wait to board. And during the Bannock Paiute uprising of 1878, it served as Field Headquarters to General O.O. Howard as well as a refuge for settlers on outlying ranches and farms. Amanda Rinehart was known as a gracious hostess, welcoming visitors to her home. When I was a child, the building was boarded up, but a group of enterprising individuals worked together to reopen it about thirty years ago. The museum is full of the town’s history, including an antique cook stove that belonged to my sister-in-law’s grandmother.

Just south of town is Keeney Pass, an interpretive site where you can see the deep groves worn into the hills by wagon wheels. It’s an incredible thing to stand there in the ruts and imagine what people must have felt when they passed through the desolate high-desert country before reaching the river and Vale.

Over the years, several murals have been painted around town to tell the story of the pioneers.

Outdoor enthusiasts will find opportunities for boating, fishing, waterskiing, hiking, and hunting in the area.

A few miles out of town is Malheur Butte, an inactive volcano that is a remnant of basalt lava floods that covered thousands of square miles in the Snake River Plain. It is a well-known landmark in the area.

One of my favorite events when I was growing up was the 4th of July rodeo. It was a PRCA-sanctioned event back then, and our little town burst at the seams during the four days of the rodeo as some of the most well-known cowboys rolled into town along with hundreds of spectators, eager to watch them compete. As part of the celebration, each year a parade was held on the 4th of July, and one evening would feature the Suicide Race just before the rodeo began.

The Suicide Race is a horseback event that lasts only a few minutes and has been a tradition in Vale since 1915. Riders travel up Rinehart’s Butte on the far side of the river while spectators, eager to observe the race, gather on the banks of the river and line fenced-off pathway into the rodeo arena. Once the riders are gathered at the top, a charge of dynamite goes off to signal those watching the race is about to begin. A rock outcropping keeps the contestants from view until they come out on the ridge. The race, at the start, is a straight drop from the rocky butte and then a dead run in soft, often-powdery soil, interspersed with sagebrush on a steep sideward angle. The horses hit the paved highway, then it’s another drop into the river, which the horses must cross, scramble up the muddy bank on the other side, and run into the arena. I am familiar with the race from my oldest brother and a few cousins competing when I was little. One year, Mom got so tense watching the race, she broke the heel off her shoe and spent the rest of the evening with an off-gait. Two of my oldest brother’s kids competed in the race and my niece became the very first female to win it. If you’d like to know what’s it like to race down the butte at breakneck speed, watch this video. The race starts at about the 2-minute mark.

 

The 4th of July parade was something I looked forward to all year (and it wasn’t just the candy  tossed out). It was fun to see the floats, and old cars, and entrants on horseback. One year, my brother’s stepson dressed up in bib overalls with a ratty straw hat and drove my dad’s old Johnny Popper tractor in the parade.

Back in 2014, on July 5, hundreds of people participated in a pickup-only parade in an attempt to break the worlds record for the longest pickup parade. It was part of the rodeo’s 100th celebration.

 

My dad drove Old Orange, a Chevy pickup he bought brand new when I was a baby.  (That’s Captain Cavedweller and my dad in it in the photo above.) There were a total of 438 pickups in the parade that did, indeed, break the Guinness World Record. Of course, it’s been broken many times over since then, but it was such a neat thing for my hometown to do!

Summer is definitely the best time to visit. If you do, drive around town and check out the murals. Make a stop at Keeney Pass to see the ruts on the Oregon Trail. Try your hand at fishing, or just splash in the water at Bully Creek Reservoir, and check out a cute little shop called Luzetta’s that has the most adorable mix of antiques, home decor, and flowers (along with really good chocolates!).

A few years ago, I wrote Romance at Rinehart’s Crossing. It’s a sweet and wholesome romance inspired by the early days of Vale. It includes three complete and intertwined stories.

Life on the Oregon Trail will never be the same . . .

Tenner King is determined to make his own way in the world far from the overbearing presence of his father and the ranch where he was raised in Rinehart’s Crossing, Oregon. Reluctantly, he returns home after his father’s death to find the ranch on its way to ruin and his siblings antsy to leave. Prepared to do whatever is necessary to save the ranch, Tenner isn’t about to let a little thing like love get in his way.

Austen – After spending her entire life ruled by her father, Austen Rose King certainly isn’t going to allow her bossy older brother to take on the job. Desperate to leave the hard work and solitude of the Diamond K Ranch, she decides a husband would be the fastest means of escape. If only she could find a man she could tolerate for more than five minutes.

Claire – Two thousand miles of travel. Two thousand miles of listening to her parents bicker about the best place in Oregon to settle. Two thousand miles of dusty trails, bumpy wagons, and things that slither and creep into her bedding at night. Claire Clemons would happily set down roots that very minute if someone would let her. What she needs is her own Prince Charming to give her a place to call home. When a broken wagon wheel strands her family miles from civilization, she wonders if handsome Worth King, the freighter who rescues them, might just be the answer to her prayers.

Kendall – Anxious to escape her mother’s meddling interference, Kendall Arrington leaves her society life behind, intent on experiencing a Wild West adventure. Hired as the school teacher in a growing town on the Oregon Trail, Kendall hopes to bring a degree of civility and a joy of learning to the children of Rinehart’s Crossing. However, the last thing she expects to find is a cowboy with shaggy hair, dusty boots, and incredible blue eyes among her eager students.

Will love find the three King siblings as Romance arrives in Rinehart’s Crossing?

 

What is one of the things you like best about small towns?

Hometown Hoedown & ebook giveaway – Karen Kay

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Howdy!  Well, I’d love to tell you I was from Montana (my husband is).  But, the truth is that I grew up in a small town (then about 2000 people) in mid to southern Illinois.  In Illinois, anything south of Chicago was considered southern Illinois.

This picture was snapped when I was about 3 or 4 years old.  I grew up with lots of cats around me and the house you see behind me was our most favorite place to play in all the neighborhood, Herbert and Barbara Brookbower’s wonderful yard.  My memory of the house was a big tree out front (one can barely see it in the photograph) and lots of bushes and shrubs to hide behind when playing hide and seek.  My friends and I spent many a summer afternoon in that tree.

This beautiful image is of the Park in my home town, Newton, Illinois.  Gosh, I have so many memories of Church picnics in this park.  The swimming pool was situated in the park and was new when I was about 11 or 12 years old and a friend of mine and I would ride our bikes across town to that pool — we went everyday that summer when the pool was open.  I remember having a glorious tan.

Now, if one were to go about a 1/2 mile down the road and across the Embarras Bridge (pronounced Em-bra) from the park, we’d come to one my very best friend’s farm…not that she or her family lived there, they lived in town 2 houses away from me.  But, it was on her farm where I had my first taste of spring water — refreshing.  It was also where my friend, Becky, and I rode horses and once a horse almost bucked me — but I stayed on.  I remember picking strawberries, climbing through the barn and an Indian mound that was on their property.

This is An old bridge over the Embarass River.  This bridge used to scare me as a kid, but it was necessary to cross it if one wished to go to places like Greenup, Illinois or to Robinson, Illinois.

I left my hometown when I was eighteen to head to the big city of Chicago, and shortly after that to go to Los Angeles, where I lived for many years.  But, there were several things I took away from growing up in a small town: one of them being friendships that have endured all these years, despite distances and despite rarely seeing one another.  And, because this was a farming community, I learned to love those who were connected to the land.

To the left here is a picture of a booksigning I did in my hometown’s library (a place where I spent many Saturdays) in 2001.  The picture is taken with several friends.  The woman at the far left of the picture is Chrissy, my best friend.  To this day we remain very close, despite the distance between us.  And so my hometown hoedown is really about friendship and love.

Now, I’d love to hear about your own hometown hoedown, so come on in and leave a post.  I will do a drawing from all of you who leave a post for my newest ebook, SHE BELONGS IN MY WORLD.  So, please come on in and leave a post.

 

Hometown Hoedown – Jill Kemerer

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Howdy! I’d love to share that my hometown is in Wyoming or Montana, but we’ll all have to settle for my hometown in the Midwest! All joking aside, I love my hometown. I didn’t grow up here, but it’s been my home for the past thirteen years. We lived here for a few years when we were first married, and we’ve been within driving distance of it for the better part of thirty years. Can you guess where I live?

Toledo, Ohio!

You might not get glamorous vibes when you hear Toledo, but it sure has a lot going for it. There are so many fun things to do in Toledo!

One of Toledo’s features that I’ve raved about for years is its Metroparks system. Toledo Metroparks  has nineteen parks with 200 miles of trails. Their ecosystems vary. Some, like Oak Openings Preserve, have multiple natural habitats, including forests, dunes, ponds, rivers, and pollinator meadows. Others have man-made structures like dams and wildlife viewing areas. We even have a few located downtown on the Maumee river. All of the parks are an outdoor lover’s dream! My husband and I enjoy visiting them, and the Toledo Botanical Garden is one of our favorites.

 

green forest with deer walking through in Toledo Metroparks
A deer in Oak Openings Preserves

 

Another Toledo must-see is the Toledo Zoo. A beautifully manicured property with all the must-see animals, the Toledo Zoo is beloved in this area! My favorite exhibits are the elephants, polar bears, otters, tigers, and the aquarium. Such a wonderful zoo! The Lights Before Christmas always puts me in the Christmas spirit.

 

Grizzly bear at Toledo Zoo
Grizzly bear at Toledo Zoo

 

I can’t get enough of the Toledo Art Museum. A stunning classical building houses over 30,000 pieces, including Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet, and ancient Mediterranean art. I personally love the art-deco details in the entrance to the main museum, and I find strolling through the various exhibits to be relaxing. I visit at least twice a year, and I always find something new to surprise me. On campus is a glass museum, and the structure itself is made of glass. Breathtaking!

 

Gallery at Toledo Art Museum. Parquet floors, tall columns leading to next gallery.
A gallery in the Toledo Art Museum

 

If you enjoy sports, Toledo is home to the Toledo Mud Hens (Triple-A baseball), Toledo Walleye (hockey), and has several universities nearby–University of Toledo, Bowling Green State University, and others.

I also enjoy going to the many coffee shops and the cute towns that make up the suburbs.

Have you been to Toledo, Ohio? If not, what attraction appeals the most to you?

Thanks for joining me today!

Hometown Hoedown – Sarah Lamb

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Welcome to Rockingham County, Virginia! Today, I’m going to be sharing a bit of history, and some photos taken from a book of the area’s history published in 1976 by the county’s extension office, for the Bicentennial, called The Heartland. So, please excuse if the pictures aren’t perfect. It’s hard to even find many photos, and this book is also hard to come by but it’s chockfull of amazing ones. I’m thrilled to own a copy even if it’s got a musty smell and I get all sneezy each time I look at it! 

There is SO much history here, I don’t even know where to start. Every day I get to drive past homes that have sat there for hundreds of years and have more stories than time attached to them. I’ve been blessed to tour several over the years, and be immersed in the history both pre and during the Civil War. 

Rockingham County is a lovely place nestled in the Shenandoah Valley. Created in 1778, Rockingham County was named for the Marquis of Rockingham, a British statesman sympathetic with the American Revolution. The county seat of Harrisonburg was named in honor of Thomas Harrison and founded in 1780. 

But, long before Rockingham County was founded, our beautiful Shenandoah Valley was home to Native Americans including the Iroquois, Siouan, Shawnee, and Tuscarora. Over hundreds of years, they carved a footpath through the Valley’s center. Later,  that became known as the Great Wagon Road. Similar to the Oregon Trail (just in the east!) it was enabled colonists to travel south from Pennsylvania. Don’t let the face it’s in the east, the more “civilized area” fool you though, it was still a very dangerous way to travel and the travelers were preyed on. 

 

With freshwater springs and caverns all over (over 100 caverns, with many available to be toured), the valley’s wide meadows and densely forested mountains were prized by German and Scots-Irish settlers. The settlers quickly established farms, mills, and thriving communities during early America’s frontier days. 

Even today, we still have the Quaker, Mennonite, and Brethren faiths active in our community. I think it was a bit of a shock for my husband, from the urban Houston, Texas, to come here and meander through small stores with Mennonites arriving in their horse and buggies, wearing their simple clothes and head coverings. I admit, I never thought twice about it, and neither have our kids. 

 

The Shenandoah Valley became known as the “breadbasket of the Confederacy” during the Civil War, and they witnessed a good number of battles. Confederate General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson successfully kept a large portion of the Union forces engaged in his Valley Campaign of 1862, preventing them from moving eastward and massing for an attack on Richmond. In fact, he stayed (and slept on the floor, preferring that to the bed!) in the Miller-Kite House in Elkton, which I’ve had the pleasure of touring twice. It’s rumored to be haunted…but it’s an incredible house, filled with secret hiding areas, pristine condition dresses and bedcovers made in the 1800s, and so much history. 

Sorry! Side tracked! History does that to me. Back to the county at whole! In 1864, the county residents, many of whom had declined to fight for religious reasons (remember, loads of Quakers, Brethren, and Mennonites,) had their barns burned and their farms destroyed by Union General Philip Sheridan. He had hoped to bring an end to the area’s ability to supply the Confederate Army.

 

After the Civil War, like so many other areas, the people rebuilt. Stores were built, even resorts in this area, and later, Shenandoah National Park would be formed. Schools, both private and public, populated the areas. 

 

 

Have you ever heard of the Wetsel Seed Company? It had its start right here, in Rockingham County, selling seeds out of a wagon.

The people of the Shenandoah Valley are proud of their history here, and those who have the means try and restore the old houses or properties, so that the stories of them can still be told.

 

There’s just so much to share…maybe I’ll do a few more blogs about our lovely area! I’ve hardly scratched the surface.  Tell me, have you ever visited Virginia? 

 

Hometown Hoedown – Cheryl Pierson

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My hometown was a little place in central Oklahoma called Seminole. Though I was born in Duncan, Oklahoma, we moved to Seminole the summer I turned six. In fact, we celebrated my birthday sitting on drawers turned on their end around a big cardboard box with the ONLY store-bought birthday cake I ever had on it.

Seminole was an “oil boom town” that, at one point, produced more oil than anywhere else in the world. But in the beginning, When Oklahoma Territory and Indian Territory merged to become the U.S. state of Oklahoma in 1907, there were 206 residents. But with the discovery of a high-producing oil well in the city in 1926, Seminole transformed from a town of 854 to a boom town of 25,000 to 30,000 residents. (Wikipedia reference.)

The streets were so muddy, travel was hard, but they managed. Finally, they paved the streets with bricks—and those bricks are still there to this very day! As you can see, this mud was something else, and it was not going away.

Seminole was in competition with Wewoka to become the county seat of Seminole County, but Wewoka won out. They were our arch-rivals in high school sports competitions, too. Here’s a picture of the high school where I attended—we were the Seminole Chieftains, and at every sporting event, one of the town elders said a prayer  over the loud speaker in English, and then repeated it in the Seminole language, as well, before we started. This lovely old building was abandoned for many years, but has recently been bought and is under renovations. The newspaper clipping shows the school in 1930, when it was new. See the architectural arrowheads around the top? These were later removed as they had begun to crumble and fall. I was in school there in the 1970’s, and by then, the arrowheads were gone.

I was so lucky to get to move there just as I turned six and start school at Woodrow Wilson Elementary School. The school was only a couple of blocks from my house, and I could walk or ride my bike, most days.

Our neighborhood was filled with kids, and as luck would have it, another little girl, only one year older than I, moved in about three houses down on the opposite side of the street the very same week we moved. Her name was Jane, and she and I became fast friends. Both of us had much older siblings and were so lonely for a playmate—and now, we had one another! Here we are in my sandbox on a fall day, when I was 8 and Jane was 9.

The principal’s assistant at our elementary school, Mary Jo Edgmon, was the sister of folk singer Woody Guthrie. One of my enduring memories was how, in the mornings, sometimes our teacher would put the intercom on so it could be heard in the office, and our class would start the day with a couple of songs—we’d sing a lot of Woody Guthrie songs. So many times, at the end of our song performance, Mrs. Edgmon would say, “That is so beautiful! I wish my brother could hear you all singing his songs. It would mean the world to him.” Sadly, by that point in time, Woody Guthrie was in the final stages of Huntington’s Disease that eventually claimed his life. So often, I’ve wished I’d looked her up as an adult and spoken with her about him.

Growing up, going to the movie theater was a huge part of our entertainment. For a while, we had three movie theaters, but by the time I was old enough to go by myself, there was only one. This was such a small, safe town, our parents would take us down and drop us off at the theater with money for a snack (usually about $1.00–you could get a huge dill pickle for $.10, popcorn for $.15, or a candy bar for $.25, and cokes were about $.25, as well)  and $.10 for the pay phone at the nearby drugstore when the movie let out. We were all about 9 or 10 when we were deemed old enough to behave ourselves without parents along, and what a milestone that was! Can’t tell you how many James Bond movies we all went to watch (none of us understanding what in the heck was going on, it just meant a lot to all be together and say we’d seen that movie!)

As we got older, the theater would close in the summer time and ONLY the drive-in theater would be open. BOO-HOO! What did we do? We drove over to nearby Shawnee, which was a little bigger than Seminole, and went to the movies there. But sometimes, of course, the drive-in movie was the best option.

Time passed, our lives taken up with school activities, band, piano lessons, dance lessons, and lots of socializing, of course. In the summers, Seminole merchants hosted a CRAZY DAYS sale, where they put out their sale goods on the sidewalk and we could all just walk and look to hearts’ content, with a bit of money in our pocket to buy something we might not be able to live without.

The library was another wonderful haven–it was housed in an old building that was accessed by a stairway. The head librarian was an older woman named Miss Goldie. She climbed those stairs every day and always had a smile for us kids. It was cool in the library and a wonderful place to be able to go and spend time while our parents were shopping or at the beauty shop or the do-it-yourself dry cleaners.

In August 1970, Seminole hosted its first All-Night Gospel Singing. During its heyday an estimated twenty-five thousand people attended the annual event. I honestly do not remember this–probably because we were caught up in so many other activities. By that time, I was thirteen years old. The Viet Nam war was raging and both my brothers-in-law were in the service, so we did have our worries. 

One of our exciting hobbies on those Friday and Saturday nights was to borrow the family car and “make the drag” downtown. This included driving past our NEW SONIC DRIVE IN, where we could pull in (if there was a parking space available) and order the most wonderful food and drinks ever. The founder of the Sonic Drive-In chain, Troy N. Smith, was from Seminole.

This was our view of Main Street, Seminole, Oklahoma, during the ’60’s – ’70’s. All these stores are gone now, with the advent of malls within driving distance, and of course, Amazon. I have not been back to Seminole in many years, but from what I hear, there are few of these individual stores left operating. 

In the summer of 1974, my dad got transferred to West Virginia, and we had to move. I was very lucky–most oil field engineers got moved around a lot more often, but I had been able to go to school in the same place ever since first grade through my junior year. Now…we had to go. To say I was heartbroken is an understatement. I loved my life there–my school, my classmates and friends, all the local “haunts” we’d frequent, and I knew moving for that last year of school was going to be horrible. I was not wrong. LOL But I got through it, and still have so many good friends from my growing up years in Seminole.

I think the biggest “hoe-down” times must have happened back in the 1920’s and 1930’s, on into the 1940’s–when Seminole was a huge, prosperous oilfield town. There are so many stories of things that happened back then –it had to have been such a raw and wild time, especially coming so soon after statehood (1907). 

A short “aside” story: Our house in Seminole was between two HUGE mansions that were built back in the heyday of the oil boom. In one house lived the widow of a prominent attorney, and in the other, the widow of one of the oil tycoons. They were in their late 80’s when we moved to Seminole in 1963–and were probably two of the only people left who could remember Seminole as it was in those old days. They would not speak to one another! I’ve so often thought about how hard it must be to have someone who had shared knowledge and memories of a time and place no one else around you had, yet, dislike them so that you wouldn’t even talk to them or reminisce with them. A real pity! But perhaps those oil boom “hoe-down” days were too much, too painful, to remember for them somehow.

By the time we moved there in 1963, there were still many operational rigs nearby, but those wild and woolly days of the “boom town” were over. This is a picture of the train depot for the Rock Island line. It was at the end of Main Street. Just look at the throngs of people here–this was during the oil boom.

Do you have any particular childhood memories, good or bad, that stand out for you to this day? One of mine was learning to ride a bike BAREFOOT and cutting my foot open so that I had to go get stiches! My dad couldn’t stand the sight of blood and he was driving like crazy to get us to the hospital. It was a holiday weekend–4th of July, I think. My mom was trying to just keep calm for everyone. I was 6 or so. what do I remember most? The tension in that car. LOL What about you? 

 

(NOTE: I do not own any of these pictures other than the one of me with Jane in the sandbox. All credit to the respective owners and I’m not sure who they are.)

Hometown Hoedown – Cathy McDavid

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I moved to Scottsdale, Arizona when I was thirteen years old. And while I’ve lived here ever since and consider it my home, I was born and raised in Connecticut. Our house was in Scantic—a small community near East Windsor with not much more than a church, a cemetery, historical society, State Park on the Scantic River, along with several home-run businesses like a construction company, art studio, and auto repair. The only new additions since I was a child are a few Airbnbs and some more houses. Otherwise, it’s pretty much the same picture-perfect heart of Colonial New England all these decades later.

Just to give you an idea of what old and quaint Scantic was and continues to be, our house was built fifteen years post the end of the civil war. The original property consisted of many, many acres with the main crop being tobacco—specifically a broad leaf variety used for cigars. Some of you may have heard of the book by Mildred Savage called “Parish” which was made into a 1961 movie of the same name starring Troy Donahue, Connie Stevens, Claudette Colbert, and Karl Malden, among others. Much of the movie was filmed in East Windsor and featured vivid scenes of shaded tobacco fields. Of course, the tobacco industry has died off since then, but there were still some fields when I was a child and one of the original tobacco drying barns on our property remained standing, although it was in great disrepair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was able to return for a visit about a year-and-a-half ago. Both my parents are buried there And while it’s far from where I live now, I honored their wishes as they were so happy during the time we lived there. It seemed only fitting they are resting in the cemetery, not far from the graves of Colonial settlers who lived in Scantic during the 1700s.

When I visited, I brought with me and donated a collection of painted primitive art that was done by a friend of my mother’s, Jean Dewey, to the historical society. The scenes on the items are from Scantic and depict the idyllic life from then and now. Small tidbit. Jean Dewey’s adorable son Christopher was in my class at school, and I had a terrible crush on him. In the third grade, he gave me a kiss on my cheek, and after promising not to tell anyone, I proceeded to blab to every girl in my class the following day.

One last note of interest. Scantic was so small, we didn’t have a school and were bussed to Broad Book, the next town over. While considerably larger, Broad Brook is still as charming as ever, and when I visited recently, I was delighted to find that some of the original buildings, like the opera house and general store, were much like they were in my youth.

Thanks for taking this trip down memory lane with me and visiting my hometown. Tell me something memorable about where you grew up and if you ever return for a visit.

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