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Ripley Roots |
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Ripley
Genealogy Moschel
Genealogy
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Twigs
Twigs was written in 1978 and given to Theresa, more affectionately known as Ray's sibling, or simply Sib, for Christmas that year. Ray's title was a take off on the then popular Roots TV mini- series and book. Ray figured the Ripley saga was not quite as magnificent as Kunta Kinte from Africa, so we would be twigs, not roots. by raymond ralph ripley To Theresa: This would be a simple dedication. While this may never be counted as a book I am sure this as close as I will ever come. The wrestling with words to convey my thoughts has been difficult for me. I have done my best. I feel it very inadequate in expressing our years of farming. As I have said--I have done my best. So again:
To Theresa It is said that the human mind can recall memories even into the womb if it is asked to. I can see no clear reason for this or advantage to it either. The recollections that I put down here have a special meaning to me and I hope to members of my family. I also know that what is special to me might not mean any thing to anyone else. This is the danger with memories. As the years go on and the mind's eye dulls, they tend to bend and separate as light going through a prism. So I ask you, reader, please bear with me and I hope that what you read will stir recollections of your own. The early memories of my childhood are almost all pleasant things. I remember wearing as a small thing, a coverall type of garment for every day wear. Early chores were spent in learning to milk a very gentle cow into a small enamel white bucket. On my 5th birthday, Grandpa Phillips game me a 2 day old female calf. I remember very well, Dad taking the back seat out of our 1935 Chevy and putting in an old piece of canvas for her to lay on to come home. I looked over the front seat at her all the way home. Even to me she looked small and very frail. I named her "Butch" and she raised many calves for me. I only raised one of her calves to maturity, a pure white Jersey (very rare) who was named Snow Flake. All of our cows were named and usually raised from our own stock. Dad had quit raising hogs early in the 1940's because of a disease problem that was in the ground. I did not mind this at all because whenever I tried to feed them, they would knock me down in their greed to get to the slop bucket. In the early days, we would separate the cream from the milk after each milking, and give the milk, mixed with ground oats, to the hogs as slop. The cream was put in small cans and taken to town to be sold on Saturday along with the eggs. This was known as trading. The eggs and cream were dropped off as soon as we reached town, the cream at the creamery and the eggs at the grocery store along with the grocery list. Our 1935 Chevy had no truck so the cream can and wooden egg carton and I sat in the back seat on the way to town. Saturday was worth it though. A trip to the movies and a stop at Grandma Ripley's on the way home. Looking back in recollection my father and his mother were very much alike, both in words and in thinking. Dad was a very dutiful son. He helped Grandma with the heavy work of running her apartment house, and took her to see her brothers and sister in Fairbury many times. Grandma loved people and was at ease with almost anyone. Almost every Saturday night when we visited her, she would proclaim it time for a "treat". (Her word). Her offering was always the same. Homemade vinegar pie or homemade lemon ice cream. The ice cream she called "cream". Both were terrible. I would wade through the portion ladled out to me under the stern eye of Mom and Dad, only to find another waiting me. Grandma loved to chew on garlic and at times her breath could have stopped a charging bull at fifty paces. At this time of my life I remember with fondness these things about Grandma. She was stern and strong willed, but full of love, anxious to give and receive it. I think anyone would be proud to be remembered in this way. There are certain pictures that a person retains in their mind all of their lives. The pleasant ones you enjoy reliving and sharing with others. The unpleasant ones kind of sneak up on you when you least expect it. I like remembering the Christmas morning when I walked into the living room and saw Charley McCarthy under the Xmas tree. Another special friend of mine was Jake. He was a stuffed dog, black and blue in color. My grade school days were spent at a one room country school about 3/4 of a mile from home. Fran Craddock escorted me to and from school my first year, then proceeded to graduate and go on to high school. I remember thinking as a child what High School must be like. I pictured it as a very large building on a hill, (for the word "high") with a lot of very tall scholarly looking people carrying large stacks of books around with them. The memories that I cherish about country school are so many that I will not even try to put them down here, but a few are; softball games with a 75 to 67 score. The extra time granted so we could go down to the creek and play on the frozen ice in the winter. Especially the Christmas program, practice started for them after Thanksgiving. Each child had a reading or poem to give. The older students had one act plays. The whole evening was climaxed by Carol singing and a visit from Santa. My room upstairs was unheated and upon rising from bed in the morning it was my habit to dash downstairs and dress by the stove in the living room. It was on a chilly spring morning like this that my mother showed me a picture. It was a calendar that advertised baby food, and showed a very small and appealing baby. My mother simply said "this is what we're going to have, a little baby." There was no birds and bees explanation or saying that the baby is growing in my tummy. She left the picture of the baby so I could look at it, which I did several times a day for next few days so I could firmly set it into my mind what the baby would look like. I never told her that some time earlier, Sara Craddock had told me that I was going to have a new brother or sister. I must have known even at that young age that Mom would have wanted to tell me that news herself. Saturdays as I have described before were a special day, with going to town and buying the things needed for the coming week. On one Saturday a great many special things were brought home. Blankets, diapers, bottles, scales, and a great many other things. These made a huge pile on our dining room table. I stared at this heap of treasure wondering how such a little baby was going to use all of those things. Time went on, as it does, and I felt it was time for me to buy something for the new little one. My proudest possession at that time was my gun and holster set. I could think of no greater honor to bestow than one of these. After careful selection one was chosen. A small black gun without working mechanism, but Mom said the baby wouldn't mind, and a small brown holster and belt. Sept. 23rd was a Saturday like all Saturdays, spent in going to town, shopping and trading and coming home in the evening. However this night would turn out a little differently. On driving into the old shed we used for a garage, a small black and white skunk scurried under the car and across my mother's feet and out the door in a dash for freedom. This is not the type of homecom ing needed by a family expecting a new baby. The skunk did not leave any calling cards behind and shortly everything quieted down and our purchases were carried into the house. To be awakened from a sound sleep abruptly is always nerve shattering but on this night it was especially so. I could feel my shirt being pulled on over my head. I could feel my arms going into the sleeves, but I wasn't doing it myself. Dad's words were simple "come on", but there was a note of urgency in his voice. Down stairs by the light of the old Aladdin lamp Mom waited. I will never forget the look on her face. She had a smile for me and more of a look of apology for getting us up in the middle of the night. The light in her eyes I would not see again until I saw it in my own wife's eyes when we had our own children. I was dropped off at Grandma and Grandpa Phillips' and awoke to the news that there was nothing to report yet. The morning dragged on and seemed endless. Even the toy basket in the spare bedroom held no fascination for me. My time was spent in looking out the window for Dad and listening for the proper line ring on the telephone. Finally the news came, a girl, born at 11:11 and the 11th grandchild for Grandma and Grandpa Phillips. Dad arrived shortly thereafter and took me to town. We even ate in a restaurant, which in itself bespoke of a momentous occasion. Mom came home from the hospital first. They had left the baby behind so Mom could gain back her strength. I accepted this as standard procedure and still waited to see my baby Sibby. Sib was her nickname and would remain with her all through grade and high school. After a suitable time we took Uncle Don's blue Pontiac (a much more dependable car) and brought her home. The homecoming of Sib was evidently a National Holiday. Relations as far away as Chicago came to visit and heap gifts upon her. I carefully awaited my chance. I went to the place that the gun and holster had been kept still in the brown paper sack that they had been brought home in. It was my observation that none of the things that everyone else had brought had not made much of an impression on her. Just wait until she saw what I had for her! She was lying on the bassinet, a canvas and wood affair that was part of the additional accruement necessary for her arrival. I took the gun and holster from the sack and laid it across her stomach. Nothing--needless to say I was disappointed. I was proud though, and the warmth and feeling of the day made me feel good. There were enough people in the house to fill it with a hum of conversation and Sib didn't seem to mind the activity one bit. Dad was in the back lane piece shucking corn and I went out to watch. Sib grew and so did I, our world did not expand too much beyond Ocoya School, Chenoa Church, and Saturdays in Pontiac. There were subtle changes, previews if you will, of things to come. Of Ronnie starting high school, which meant daily sessions with Mom to help with Latin homework and finally Jerry going into high school, which meant I was in the eighth grade. Being an eighth grader was a dubious honor in country school. You were asked to do the prestigious jobs in school building maintenance such as taking out the ashes, bringing in the water to wash with, and helping to supervise the younger kids of first and second grades. Eighth grade also brought out something else in Dad. Chenoa had a good basketball team, and we started going to games. I think at first on the pretext "well he will be there next year and we should see what it's like." Dad and Mom both enjoyed the games as much or more than I did and were really very good about running me where I wanted to go. By now Dad was letting me drive the tractor some and was looking forward to the additional help I could give him. In the spring of 1949 we got a second tractor. My life of farming had begun. Upon entering high school I took agriculture and became a member of the FFA. My entrance into high school went fairly smoothly. It took some getting used to, instead of two class members in my eighth grade class, there were 36 members in my freshman class. In starting my sophomore year, Sib also started school. The picture of her first ride to school is as vivid as if it were yesterday. Sib sat directly across from me on the bus, her feet unable to touch the floor. I tried to imagine the thoughts going through her mind. Her small mouth was tight lipped and any attempt at conversation by me was rewarded only by a sideways look. When the bus stopped at the grade school she got off as if she had been doing it all her life. I thought to myself as she went through the bus door, Sib's got her own world now. My picture is still on the wall at Chenoa High as is Sib's and our mother's. In recent years, my two sons pictures have been added to the list of Chenoa grads. When my daughter's is added, another generation will have left their mark on Chenoa High. I wish I could boast of an outstanding high school career; but I cannot. I could fill a page with the things that I did not excel in. However, old C.H.S. did leave me with some very pleasant memories such as: Maude Henline, who taught there for 48 years and could remember and call by name every student she had during that span. George Ferree, probably the most outstanding teacher I had during my entire education. He will always be remembered for his discipline and his dedication. But most of all the pride that all students have for their school and its traditions. At the time I thought it most remarkable that people who had been away for 25 or 50 years would want to come back--some of them from great distances--for a reunion. But now I understand. My social life in high school, while not a disaster, was not what it should have been to prepare me for college. My stay at Normal was just long enough to acquaint me with college life. For the first time I saw that there was a life other than farm life. At the start of the second semester, Dad had a heart attack and I came home to farm and help my family through this temporary set back. Dad's recovery was as complete as it could be and by that fall he was where he wanted to be, on the tractor seat shucking corn. After knowing that Dad was going to be alright from his heart attack, I looked back with pride on the farming year of 1954. Grandpa Phillips and I had planted and cultivated the entire crop. We cut the hay and put it up, and also took care of the stock, which was no small job. While Grandma Ripley was my sitting Grandma, that is how I remember her. She took care of herself and walked at a very slow pace. Grandpa and Grandma Phillips were my doing Grandparents. I remember them as active and busy. Grandma was a small, slight, very bright person and a joy to be around. She made the best corn bread I have ever eaten, it was good either warm or cold. Grandpa always called her either Mealy or Dear and their love for each other was a beautiful thing. Grandpa Phillips was getting older and looking back I can see that at that time I had to shoulder the portion of the load that he could no longer carry, and also take up the slack that was made by Dad's heart attack. Dad would have never admitted it, but he was a dependent on Grandpa as Grandpa was on him. Dad was the son that farmed that Grandpa needed and Grandpa was the steadying influence and extra man that Dad needed. I worked with both of them a great deal, sometimes alone and sometimes together. Grandpa was precise in his work, dedicated to perfect results and oblivious to time. Dad worked as if every job that took a half hour had to be done in 15 minutes. He worked hard at anything he did and in my mind's eye he was happiest with his sleeves rolled up and perspiration dripping off his nose.
With this conflict of training, sometimes I whisk through a job Willie Nillie and on other times, I have all the care and patience of a master craftsman. It was with this training that I started my own farming operation.
Myself, I believe trying to paper analyze a marriage and putting your feelings for another on paper cannot really fully show to the reader your successes or failures in marriage. I only want to say that meeting, knowing and marrying Janice has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. I treasure all of the years that we have had together, and look forward to many more with her. Our children have long since passed the baby stage and are well on their way to adulthood. Each one has his own distinct personality and to put it simply and modestly, they are the best kids in the world. I am sure that each parent feels that way about their children and I know that the protection and pride of the young is one of the strongest emotions felt by man. My farming operation on my own started in the fall of 1956 and will finish Dec. 14th, 1978. It is with mixed emotions that I leave the farm, it has been the major occupation in my life. It started from the first I can remember with my parents teaching me and showing me what to do. My farming life was hard work but very gratifying. Pride in a job well done, worry over bad weather, but always the same end result, two families working together to raise a crop and work the land. Mom was the statistician, record keeper, number three helper and in spite of how she felt healthwise, was always there when she was needed. Hours in the field were long and hard, the cold weather and outdated machinery would soon sap your strength. It was always good to look down to the end and see the blue car or the gray pickup truck with Mom, her brown thermos and package of rolls. She was one of the busiest people I have ever known. Even when she sat down to rest she kept her hands busy with knitting, embroidery or crocheting. She was one of the best spirit bolsters I have ever seen. Her timing was always good and her familiar "aren't we having fun" made a bad moment bearable. Dad loved the farm, his appetite for work never was satisfied. He would have been happy nowhere else. His last few years were frustrating for him, he knew what he wanted to do, he had done the work before, but his body would no longer let him do it the way he wanted to. Now it was his turn to ask me for help. It was never put into words, that plea, but it was there. One by one his activities were curtailed, not being able to hook up a wagon by himself, unplug his plow and many others. But he went on. Some might say he should have quit, but I know now that if he would have, that would have meant giving up to his illness, and I'm glad he didn't. I am proud of what the three of us did those last years. Anyone could have done that work with good machinery and in good health. On Dad's last day on earth his speech was gone, but we always spoke more with our eyes that with words. I bent over his bed and talked to him as I had on several days before. He was better that day thanks to a massive injection of medication the doctor had given him. As I talked I knew he understood me and tried to answer. His eyes asked me for help, but this time the wagon was too heavy, the plow was plugged too tightly. I stopped talking and clasped his hand. I held tightly and so did he. I can still feel his hand in mind, I will forever. That man that I looked up to as a boy, who had seemed so tall, who I knew was stronger than Superman, who was more than my father, who, al though we fought, was my friend. And so we went on--Mom making plans--and me getting ready for fall. Mom had her first airplane ride and except for natural periods of depression was doing okay. We were trying to follow advice of others of what to do. Not hurry into decisions or to act rashly. Mom said she wanted to stay where she was as long as she wasn't scared. On the last day I saw Mom, we had coffee together and David and I went down to work on the windows in the basement at Church. I called Mom when we got home and talked to her before she went to Church. I can't recall our last conversation, but the meaning was the same as it had been for a long time. To Mom, "I'm here if you need me." Her reply, "I'm doing okay, but it's good to know, if I need you, you're there." Shortly after 2:00 a.m. the next morning our telephone rang. It was Lucy Decker. I have thought a lot about Mom's death since it happened. Always with the same conclusion, God needed her. My last year of farming has been a good one. I have really finished on a high note. I look forward now to my new job and to moving into our new home. I do not think about this as an end but as a continuation. My farming background will help me in my new work. I hope 20 years from now to be writing memories of a machinery salesman.
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