July 1962. Age 10

The 55 Ford was Kewanee-bound bound and all working parts were working as best they could. One headlight had been out for two weeks, but Dad had learned to drive in the dark using the back roads. Even one car light could illuminate the dark countryside. Heck, even a train only uses one light. He could adjust to hard times because it was the only time he knew.

Independence Day was celebrated on one of Uncle Bob’s farms. I had four Uncle Bobs on four farms in the country outside of Kewanee, but all were of different heights, so it was easier for the rest of the extended family (150 folks) to yell for a Bob and pick the right guy!  A common exchange was “No, Bob, not you! The other Bob!”  This dialogue continued for about 10 minutes in order to get the right Bob. 

The Aunts were famous for cooking, and the fried chicken and accessories were always ready. Tables were brought or secretly borrowed and loaded with great food. 100 feet of food was overwhelming for a normal person, but our families were big eaters, and most of us brought our own fly swatting weapons. Fly swatting was kind of a sport to many of the uncles. The four Bobs were almost professionals. “Nice swing, Bob!”

After the big meal, we were forced to play a softball game in the pasture, and Aunt Wilma was always the pitcher…it was her ball, which was purchased around 1932. Prohibition had ended, and the real fun on the farm had commenced…legally in ten years. That soft ball was extremely soft in my time. So soft that when it actually was hit by any kind of bat, it would kinda float on the ground or through the humid air, maybe way out to Second Base. More like hitting a sponge.  The game would last for hours for some reason. Couldn’t actually throw the ball either. This slowed things down to the point where the term “Slow Pitch” was created. Our bases were stacks of cow paddies. No one really wanted to get on base. Finally, at sundown, the game was stopped.

The biggest thrill arrived in the dark. Our own fireworks!  Two of the four Uncle Bobs got on top of the humungous 3-story barn, and we all waited in anticipation and quivering suspense. The pasture (usually holding 75 cattle) was grazed down to about an inch high. A very great spot to see any kind of flame or lights. We sat back about 50 yards, so we were safe.

Without notice, a bright, blazing red flame from a tossed road flare came soaring from the top of the barn. It dropped in a huge arc in the black sky. We were all in awe!  What was neat was that the flare continued to flame red hot upon hitting the pasture. It never went out!

Who could ask for more?  After about two dozen hand-thrown road flares that stayed on fire for hours, we asked the Bob to stop. The thrill was gone, and we had a hard time breathing because of the smoke coming from the eternal flares. From miles away, the pasture looked like the top of a burning red volcano. All the flares landed in the same spot. Aunt Wilma had several calls from neighboring farms concerned about their livestock and lungs. Wilma reassured the neighbors that the flares would burn out by sunrise. 

We made it home safely by sunrise, even with one headlight. Dad sang the national anthem for the two-hour drive, which should have only taken 45 minutes. I know every word of the national anthem.

Hug your kids and love your neighbor.