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My Sibling

by theresa m ripley, sister

Raymond Ralph Ripley

He was working in their shoe store on a Saturday afternoon when something exploded in his head. He had just returned from his uncle's graveside service. On the trip to the hospital, mumbling his last intelligible words, he asked Janice, his wife, "Is the mudhole alright?" The mudhole. Ray was back on the 200 acres that he had helped farm since the late 1930's. He had not farmed the mudhole for eight years.

Ray was 51 when he died in 1986. He lived in our Midwest farming community of 1000 for all of those 51 years. People agree Ray was a hell of a guy. The kind who would help people at a moment's notice without being asked or expecting to be thanked.

His funeral reflected that. By the end of the two-day memorial more than 800 people had signed the guest book, and more came but did not have the opportunity to stand in line and sign their name. He was well liked and consequently well remembered. Ray, in other words, was important.

What made Ray important? Was he a community philanthropist? Was he the town banker? Was he the town mayor? He was none of these things, but he was more. I'll give a sister's eye view to Ray and his life.

Ray was born in 1935 and almost 10 years my senior. Even though my memories of young Ray are limited by our age difference, his early memories of me are not. They are recorded with loving care in a book he made for me in 1979 entitled Twigs. His title was a take off on the then popular Roots TV mini-series and book. He figured the Ripley saga was not quite as magnificent as Kunta Kinte from Africa, so we would be twigs. In it he describes his early years and how much he looked forward to a new sibling. He wrote that his gift for the newcomer was a toy gun, and he was quite disappointed that the baby showed so little interest in his gift. Early on he named me Sibby, short for sibling. The rest of the family shortened it further to Sib. It stuck for a long time.

My earliest memories of Ray are the recollections of a small kid with a teenage brother. I remember the brother who would rather go out with his best friends; Jerry, Dave, and Bob; than spend time with me. Going along with them was out of the question. But there was much fun at home. Our backyard pasture was a quarter of an acre and just the right size for the neighborhood (if you can call Ocoya with its one grain elevator and four houses a neighborhood) baseball field. The cows were in the pasture/baseball field during the day, and many a player stepped on cow dung going back to catch a fly. The area between the crib and machine shed was usually set up for horseshoes; and my dad, particularly, was a good player. Many summer evenings were spent making ice cream with Ray as chief turner and either neighbors or family as guests.

The upstairs of our farm house was reached through a narrow, steep staircase which opened into Ray's room. You walked through Ray's room to get to my room. Because of this arrangement, I had a good opportunity to view many of Ray's activities. Ray's room was filled with pennants and stacks and stacks of comic books, mostly Westerns but also some issues of Archie and Jughead. He read for hour upon hour and catalogued his collection meticulously in an old cabinet. He also went through his woodburning phase and the distinctive odor filtered into my room. Ray also tried having international pen pals and one particular correspondent, Zizzy from Algiers, was notable. Zizzy initially thought she was writing another girl; but even after the gender was corrected, they wrote for many years. Ray got several boxes of dates as a part of that relationship.

When Ray entered high school, I was 4 years old. By then Ray was my idol of all things good and wonderful, and I followed him and his activities as close as he would allow for the next four years. The name, picture, and vital statistics of all Ray's 30+ classmates in the class of '53 at Chenoa High School was emblazoned in my mind. I grew up with these people from 1949-53, and they were equally "my classmates" as I attended all the school games and other class functions. Ray had the lead in the Senior play titled Me and My Shadow. I was his at-home rehearsal companion and knew most of his lines by heart. As a member of the audience the night of the play, I remember poking Mom and saying, "He said it wrong."

Even though Ray did not get the best grades in his class (mainly because he never brought home a book), I would speculate he was viewed as the best speaker of both dramatic and comic material. He demonstrated his ability beyond Chenoa on a number of occasions. One was the class senior trip when the group went to Mackinac Island, Michigan, on a boat. There were hundreds of guests, and there was a talent contest. Ray not only competed, he came home with the 1st place trophy for his comic act.

Ray left for college in the fall of 1953. He wanted to be a ag teacher. He was encouraged by his high school ag teacher and his parents. I don't remember many family discussions regarding Ray's occupational choices, with one exception. One Saturday after catechism which was taught by our parish priest, Ray arrived home and announced that he and Father Malady had decided that Ray would enter the priesthood. Mom said, "No you're not!" and that's all we ever heard about that. Other Catholic families probably would have rejoiced, but not this one. My parents occupational choices for their son remained ag teacher and/or farmer.

His college choice was ISNU in Normal, about 30 miles away. It was the same school where his mother had earned her teaching certificate. He lived just across the street from campus and worked at a restaurant right down the street called The Pilgrim, the Pil for short. We made several visits to campus that fall semester. Being eight years old, I do not know what the 18-year-old freshmen was experiencing; but he seemed to be enjoying it and his grades were acceptable.

A couple of months later during the winter of 1954 Dad had a heart attack. It was not life threatening, but he had to quite farm work for a period of time. There was no alternative. Ray must quit college and come home and farm. As I heard my parents talk over the decision, Dad cried. It was the only time I saw him cry--ever.

Ray never returned to college. Instead he worked at Gray Metal Company in Chenoa doing tool and die work as well as farm with Dad. Why this occurred is a mystery to me.

Somewhere in this era Ray met Janice; and, as they say, the rest is history. They married January 27, 1957. Ray was 21 and Janice was 17. In short order Ray and Janice established a farm about one half mile from us. They were tenant farmers on 160 acres. Because Dad and Mom had the machinery and years of know how, it became a joint operation between our 200 acres and Ray's 160 acres. Ray and Janice soon became parents, and I became an aunt at age 12. Because of the close proximity of the two families I felt I had a new brother, this time younger, instead of a nephew.

Ray often had breakfast and lunch at our place. I had two houses that seemed like home, and Ray's house had running water and an inside toilet. Because of this arrangement I never felt I lost a brother; we just had a vacant room to store stuff in upstairs.

The two families blended together and worked together. By the time I left for college in 1962 Ray's oldest son was five and another, age two, was on the scene. When I had finished college, a daughter had arrived; and the two boys were already working in the field.

In the stories I wrote about Dad and Mom I described how this team worked together. They were a marvelous crew. Ray was clearly the muscle of the trio. My brother, at 6'2", in my eyes could do anything he set his mind to, and he often did.

Unlike his father, Ray was always involved in the community in addition to farming. He was elected to the school board for over a decade and served for years as president. Teachers, parents, students, and administrators alike praised his efforts and contributions. He also taught catechism. Anytime I was home to visit my parents, or later just Ray, it was clear he was known and respected by all.

Ray clerked at a local shoe store during the winter season for twenty years. Many area residents waited to buy shoes until the days Ray worked because he was just so darn nice to deal with. Ray's wife, Janice, started clerking at the same store in the late 60's. They purchased the store in 1985 with Janice being manager.

My nuclear family were last together, all in good health, in the summer of 1976. I had gone home to celebrate the bicentennial in Chenoa, where else would one want to be on that particular 4th? Chenoa is renown for its July 4th celebrations. The small community swells 5 or 6 times its size for the two-day celebration.

Dad, Mom, and I were sitting together around the kitchen table in early morning eating hardtack. This is toast fixed in the oven until entirely dry and crisp on which you spread liverwurst or peanut butter. Believe me, it is good. Ray dropped in, got a cup of coffee, and sat down. Mom said, "Isn't it nice--just the four of us." And it was.

In 1977 Mom and Dad died. Even though I saw my brother only five times from 1978-85, I can't imagine feeling closer to a sibling. We had endured Dad and Mom's death, and we knew there was no one else that knew our portion of the Ripley story like we did. Never stated; there was a bond that was just understood. It was also during this time that we began a true correspondence. Ray was an interesting and skillful writer. He wrote to me about his family and at times would describe his feelings about the folks passing. They are good letters, and I saved them all.

Ray quit farming in 1978 and had his farm auction in December. After 22 years, he was out of farming, more if you count his youth. Next stop was being an implement salesperson for International Harvester. Ray's timing was faulty because IH was undergoing massive losses. His job lasted less than two years. Next, and final stop, was the Soil Conservation Service as Executive Director. My only contribution to getting his job was writing his resume. He got the job over college graduate applicants; and when I found that out, it was hard to keep my head a reasonable size that day. What a great position for Ray; an opportunity to teach farmers about soil conservation and save the precious soils of Illinois. In the end he did become an ag teacher to the most important group, the actual farmers. Ray put me on the mailing list for his Soil Conservation Service newsletter (which he wrote), described every new conservation plan to me, and just assumed I was fully interested. With Ray's enthusiasm you could not be otherwise.

The last time I saw Ray was in August 1985 when I went home for a four-day visit. Ray had arranged to take all four days off work, and we were inseparable during the visit. For one of those days a friend of mine from Sweden, who was currently studying in Chicago, came down on the bus to visit what I told him would be "the real Illinois." Ray had arranged for my friend to see farming operations and described to him the entire process of growing crops. My friend could not believe his depth of knowledge and powers of description. For one part of the day's lesson, Ray took us in the old, familiar grey truck with Ray Ripley printed on the side to a patch of prairie grass about six miles from home. Ray described to the Swedish visitor how this grass had never been disturbed, and it was the same as when the first settlers came to Illinois. He went on with stories about the land in such a poetic way that I was moved deeply. It left quite an impression on my Swedish friend as well as myself.

It is many years since Ray's death, and I still get lumps in my throat when I think of him. I tried to think of the essence of the people I am writing about. In Dad's case it was his passion for farming, and in Mom's it was her optimism. For Ray I cannot yet decide what I think captures his essence. There is so much. Maybe later I can write more. I have become more tolerant of time passing.

I have one strong feeling by Ray's passing and that is being left as the sole survivor of our nuclear family.

Who is left to tend the land? I am a very poor steward. I did not pay attention to the excellent teachers I had when I had the opportunity. But I have learned from that and now try to learn when opportunities present themselves.