Recipes for Living Dale and Dorothy Jones

For the full story of my life, combine the following with my war experiences in the Hopeville section of the veterans' book. In this version, I will give limited highlights of my military career: I, Dale C. Jones, son of William M. Jones and Goldie Gladys Carrel Jones, was born August 17, 1918 in Doyle Township, Clarke County, Iowa. I am of Welsh descent. My paternal grandparents had two children who emigrated from Wales to the U.S. in the early 1880s, and after one year in Ohio, came to Doyle Township, Clarke County, Iowa. Grandad's brother, Thomas B. Jones, lived on the farm across the road from Gregg Cemetery. My mother's family had lived in western Virginia (circa 1700), spent a few years in Kentucky and in southern Indiana before buying land from the government in Richland Township, Decatur County, in 1855.

I had an older brother, Harry Eugene, born January 7, 1916, and after my birth, our family grew to include Iris Louise born February 6, 1921, Alice Elizabeth (Betty) born April 20, 1924, and James William born May 5, 1927. I remember the shock of having to spend a couple nights at my maternal grandparents' home at the time of the birth of my sister Iris. I was a homesick child! I believe I was timid in those early days. My Aunt Mary and her husband, "Ode" Clausen, lived in Lawrence, Kansas. He seemed to enjoy the fact that I was afraid of him and would magnify the situation by teasing me. I was glad they lived so far away.

I have early memories of playing on the floor as an infant, provoking my older brother and paying the consequences. I barely recall the bout we brothers had with the dread diphtheria when I was 3 ½ or four years old. Brother Gene was very ill. He had a bed or cot out in the living room near the heating stove. I was only moderately sick and had a pallet made across two straight chairs.

When I was four years or younger, an accident had an effect on my early life. I wandered away from the yard into a field where my father was plowing with a team of horses and a walking plow. Apparently I decided to take a nap in the furrow, and when the horse, Dick, came along he almost missed me, but his hoof struck me in the face and knocked out most of my front teeth.
The dentist did some patchwork but I went through the growing-up years with bad front teeth, and after my permanent teeth grew in, I had to have a bridge made. There were other minor cuts and bruises from going barefoot in the summer.

As a youngster, I was subjected to the usual chores and hardships that went with life without modem plumbing and heating in our rural homes. It was a lesson in work ethics because each of us children had his or her assignment at an early age. My first chore was bringing fire wood to the porch from the woodpile. I would load the wood onto the little wagon, or sled if there was snow on the ground, and maybe upset it two or three times before arriving at the porch, but I'd eventually get it done - maybe with help from Father or brother Gene. We had horses, cattle, and hogs, and Gene helped with them.

The girls helped Mother with household tasks. After the birth of my brother Jim, her health seemed to start deteriorating, and she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, a bacterial disease of the lungs. There was no cure at that time, and it was greatly feared. This meant that my sister Iris and I, and later our sister Betty, were brought into the family chores of baking bread, cake, and cookies along with other household duties that Mother directed from her chair - later from her bed. This, of course, dampened what would have been a happy family atmosphere as we children realized the seriousness of her disease.

However, I think of my childhood as a happy one. Mother was a very compassionate person, and I'm sure Father's strict discipline was because this was the way he was raised. The atmosphere in the home was good with a certain amount of sparring among the four older children when no parent was present. This might have been somewhat in the form of a game as the oldest and youngest paired against the middle two in age. When my sister chased the other sister with a knife, I don't think she would have hurt her, had she caught her. In a family of five children, during those poor economic times, there was a little positioning for favors from parents. We were resigned to wanting only clothing and items necessary to carry on the basic functions - food to remain healthy, and clothing to stay warm. I would say our parents generally got along well. In retrospect, I believe I had more of our mother's characteristics than those of our father.

I attended rural school at Doyle No. 6. During the school years, our entertainment was sledding and ice skating, playing baseball catch, riding Midget the pony, fishing in creeks or ponds. At night, we played cards and other games by the dull light of a kerosene lamp, occasionally going to one of the villages to a celebration or three-day reunion with its carnival and other shows. Church was not a great part of our family life while I was growing up. The local United Brethren Church had lost its congregation to other groups, and no longer was able to support a Sunday school. For a short time, we attended Sunday school at another location.

In 1929, the New York stock market had completely "bottomed out." Repercussions reached every hamlet and community in the U.S., known historically as the "Great Depression." It took two or three years for it to reach the main street of Grand River, Iowa, but when it did, the two banks went bankrupt, which in many cases took people's savings. Previously thriving communities, large and small, were brought to their knees. The 1920s had been fairly good economically for my parents, and that year we traded the Model T Ford for a new Model A, which had a self-starter. That eliminated the crank on the front. But in the following years, farm markets went sprawling. Few people had jobs and no money to buy the food they badly needed. During these years, many people went hungry. Those of us on the farms, with our own production of milk, eggs, and meat, plus garden vegetables, were better served than many in the metropolitan areas. However, in the mid-1930s, Mother Nature dealt another blow to the upper mid-western states. We suffered one of the most severe droughts in the history of our nation.
The year 1934, was so dry gardens produced little and farm crops were almost nil.

All of these circumstances clouded my life as a teenager. I look back on those years as some of the lesser desirable times in my life. Those of us making the transition from country schools to high school in larger towns were the brunt of sarcastic remarks by small town jerks, who took delight in reminding us we were country bumpkins. However, after they tired of that, I enjoyed school in all the phases I attended. At the end of my freshman year, it was necessary for my formal education to be interrupted. Mother needed constant care, and money was not available for that kind of help, so the decision was made that I remain out of school in 1933. Brother Jim was to start country school, where Iris and Betty were attending, and Gene was to finish his senior year at Grand River. It was a somewhat lonely year. I missed the fellowship of people my age, but it was then I learned to make homemade bread, cook other food, and do the cake and cookie baking needed to feed our family of seven. Someone stayed home with Mother on the night of Gene's graduation, so the rest of us could attend.

I recall in the last days, Mother made me promise to get my high school diploma, and I'm sure both Betty and Iris were counseled the same. Brother Jim was only 4 ½ years old and too young for that conversation. She asked Dad to make sure we were given this opportunity, and he did. She would have been proud, as each of us fulfilled her desire to have us graduate.

I enrolled in the Van Wert School for a year, staying with Aunt Bertha Tiedje. The following year, I went back to Grand River High School and graduated in 1936. The school was about seven miles from our home. I walked those seven miles - usually only one way. I rode a horse round trip many times, and traveled by car when, in the spring, it would have been faster walking through the mud. I recall a night when I walked home after playing a basketball game.

My high school superintendent, Mr. Sloan, was one of the most admired people in my lifetime. Mr. Barnhouse, who coached our basketball and softball teams, was also one who I think contributed a great deal, giving us students goals and making us work to achieve them. In 1936, a blizzard closed our school for two weeks. Railroad tracks were blocked and no coal could be shipped in.

As for boy-girl relationships, I can recall none. We had class parties in the homes of some of the teachers and some of the town resident girl students, but no real romances developed therein. Lack of automobile transportation may have been a deterrent. With better weather in the spring, there was some dating, and maybe some relationships became serious and the couples married. The number, however, would be small. It is possible that other circumstances had an effect, and the diet of yore may have had an effect on the flow of testosterone.

After high school graduation, the choice of employment in our area was very limited. Many of the young men were going to California to find jobs in the service field. I don't believe that entered my mind. I took the option to enroll in a summer session of one of the local colleges. With the right choice of subjects, I could take a state exam and be certified to teach in a rural school. One of the directors of the local country school asked if i would be interested in a position, and after a short hesitation, I told him I was. In May 1936, I attended a summer session at Simpson College in Indianola. I became headmaster, janitor, and teacher at Doyle No. 6, where for two generations, other members of our family and I attended, and where two of Dad's siblings - Uncle John and Aunt Mary - taught in the early years of the twentieth century. I taught Doyle No. 6 School the following year, was paid $60 a month, and lived at home. The offside of that was, with only three students graduating to high school, there were not enough pupils left for the school to stay open another year.

That spring, my father's brother in west central Kansas telephoned that he needed help on his farm during the wheat harvest in June-July, so in 1937, brother Gene and I drove out to Simpson to take advantage of good wages for a short time. However, I stayed to help prepare for the next planting, and when Uncle Frank and Aunt Goldena approached me about attending Kansas State College, I accepted the offer. I would work summers in exchange for college expenses, which was a good deal for me. In September, I enrolled in the school of Civil Engineering at Kansas State, University, Manhattan, Kansas, and I attended college for the next 2 1/2 years.

The boy-girl situation at this college was rather bleak for the males. Being predominately an Engineering and Agricultural School, the number of female attendees was a small percent compared to the male population. And it seems that the physical attributes of many of those that did show, were not the queens of the class. Attending college on a limited budget did not encourage a lot of dating expense. At this time, the term "Dutch treat" had not been fully explored. We could, on occasion, date local high school girls from Manhattan. I quite often had a "not serious" girl friend at least on my part - from the Simpson/Glasco area. Even though my greater rapport was with the male students, I must stress that girls had at all times held a fascination for me, and I believe a normal and healthy feeling existed for the opposite sex.

In the first semester, 1939, I enrolled in a special course, Civilian Pilot Training, paid for by the Federal Government. Upon successful completion, it would give me a private pilot's license. In the program, there were ground school courses and I learned to fly the Piper J-3 airplane. The latter provided a few hours in the cockpit of this small plane, which intensified my interest in flying. In early November, we were informed that a group of Air Corps Officers, including a Flight Surgeon, would be coming to our campus to recruit trainees for the pilot training (Flying Cadet) program. Those of us with two years of college credit, who passed the physical and the Board of Officers' tests, were told we could finish the semester before being called for enlistment. Thus, in a matter of weeks, my status was to change from college student to one of learning to fly military aircraft! What a change!

While I don't want to gloss too lightly over the years as a college student, the interest that I gained from this experience would guide my next venture in life. For the first two years, I endured ROTC (Reserve Officers' Training Corps) then opted for the advanced phase in my junior year. I didn't refrain from the silly and sometimes stupid conduct college students were prone to fall into - netting goldfish from one of the college fish pools, putting them in a bathtub in the rooming house, where we drew lots to see who swallowed one alive, with the losers drawing the larger ones. I hitchhiked 90 miles to Uncle Frank's home many times, returning to Manhattan the same way.

The pilot training program, at Kelly Air Force Base in Texas, had a high "washout" (elimination) built into its operation. Only about 40% of those entering were going to be around for the finish. The pressure from knowing this, plus the constant hazing from the upper class made it a pure pressure cooker type of existence. They apparently wanted to know how we held up under such conditions. In the next nine months we went through the three phases of pilot training (primary, basic, and advanced), including graduating to larger planes, and we were able to do the full gamut of aerobatics, the close formation flying, night and instrument flying, and about anything the aircraft was capable o£ On completion, we were awarded the silver wings of an airplane pilot, and a reserve commission in the Air Corps, later called Air Force Reserve.

On the evening of September 4, 1940, I was alone. My three tent-mates were scheduled to fly. I strolled across to the flight hangar about 10:00 p.m. and met Lt. Young, my flight instructor, and asked if he might have a plane I could take to make the triangular cross-country flight on schedule for the night. He said, "Yes, I have one. It's a B.C.lA." I prepared my maps and took off about 10:30. The flight was to go southeast to Yoakum, then northwest to a town north of Austin, just short of Waco, then returning to Kelly with no landings between, in an elapsed time of one hour and 45 minutes. Navigation was by the lights of the many towns along the way, as well as the revolving beacon lights that were spaced along the civil airways about 40 miles apart. (Civil airways are like highways in the sky, but less well-defined.) It was required that we fly on the right side of these, at prescribed altitudes, according to the direction, thus separating planes to avoid the danger of collisions.

This particular flight was uneventful to Yoakum, where I changed headings for the next leg. It was one of the nights we experienced quite frequently, when the haze from the Gulf caused visibility to be reduced considerably, which in turn reduced the visible horizon to a less than clearly defined one. To maintain our bearings in instrument or poor night visibility, we had to maintain the horizon or go to the artificial horizon on the instrument panel. At that time, I guess no one had fixed this point fully in my head.

As I approached the airway between San Marcos and Austin, I had to lose altitude to reach my designated flight plan. In so doing, I did one of Lt. Spicer's peel-offs, which had been a thrill on the clear night at Randolph. But when the 2500 feet was lost, and I tried to recover from the dive, I had inadvertently gotten into the "death spiral," which is somewhat similar to a tailspin. The normal reaction - to pull back on the elevator control - only tightens the spiral, and the plane continues to dive. By the time I realized I was not going to stop the dive, the altimeter was showing 1500 feet and dropping rapidly.

A few seconds before the plane and I would have dived into the terra firma, I pulled open the canopy, unfastened the safety belt, and went over the side of the plane. My parachute opened I still had the "D" ring in my hand when I hit the ground - and after just a few swings, my feet hit the top of a mesquite tree. I remembered to relax, as we had been instructed, and with a bang I landed with my knees hitting my chin. I still have a scar on my left knee from where it struck a rock. I had lost my head cover on the way down, but still had my shoes, which often go when the parachute opens, and I was wearing my flying coveralls.

Even though the night was quite dark, while I was hanging in the parachute I had been able to make out a road. I wadded up the parachute canopy, tucked it under my arm, and headed in the direction of the road. I reached it, started walking, and in about a quarter of a mile, I came to a farmhouse. The farmer offered to drive me to the next small town, which I think was Kyle, so he, a couple of his kids, and I loaded into a 1935 Chevy and in a few minutes arrived at the village "hotel," which was not a high rise building. It was about midnight when I arrived. I had no money, but the innkeeper accepted my crash bracelet as security for a room. I called Kelly Field Operations and reported my location to the surprised person on duty. He said they would come get me the next day. I don't know which of the people was the most awe-stricken - the farmer, his kids, or the hotel keeper. They all seemed to regard me as someone from Mars.

In October 1940, I graduated from the Advanced Pilot Flying School at Kelly Field, San Antonio, Texas and was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in the Reserve, with a rating of Airplane Pilot. I remained on active duty, and then came the sneak attack by the Japanese on the bases at Pearl Harbor and the start of World War II on December 7, 1941. There were crippling damages to our Naval fleet with extreme loss both in weapons and the morale of our country. We were sent immediately to the Panama Canal Zone, which was our link for shipping between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Without its availability, the route was around the tip of South America, adding a distance of an extra 7,000 miles. I was sent to the Panama Canal Zone, as a member of the 6th Air Force, and flew reconnaissance and submarine patrol over the Caribbean Sea. With the expansion of the Air Force came many promotions and, at the age of24, I was in command of a flying unit, and a Major in rank.

There were many unknowns in the early days of WW II, and pilots often had to be innovative. We established a military operating base at Rio Hato Air Field, and from it the Bomber Command was flying heavy bombers, B-17s and B-24s, doing surveillance over the Pacific Ocean and from other bases in the canal zone - the Ascension Islands, Lima, Peru, and Guatemala City, Guatemala. My presence at this base in April 1942, was as Commanding Officer of the Tow Target Detachment, operating out of Howard Field in the canal zone. I was checking out some pilots newly assigned to our unit in night flying in Panama. For security reasons, no night training flights were allowed within the Canal Zone, so two pilots and I had made the 40 minute flight to Rio Hato to use their facility. This base had but one strip and it ran north and south, with the south end ending at the ocean. On the west side were the buildings, tents, and housing for the troops. Along the runway on this side was parking for planes. Along the east side was a more open area, with parking for more aircraft.

When darkness arrived, I started one of the 0-47As, and with Lt. Lathrop in the middle seat, I taxied out and made the take-off in the northerly direction. The runway lights were small hooded lamps which would be visible only when one was in the direction of the extension of either end of the runway. Our other source of light was from the landing lights in the wings of the plane, which show the ground as one nears the landing spot. After making a couple landings, I taxied to near the control tower, got out of the plane, and told the Lt. to "shoot" a few landings. There was no operator in the tower, and I made arrangements with Base Operations, while checking out these pilots, to use the tower and the light gun therein. Radio communication from tower to plane was allowed only in an emergency. As the Lt. approached for landing, it seemed he was a little off course. Suddenly I realized he had picked up another series of lights and was about to land into the line of parked B-17s and B-24s. By this time I had the microphone in hand and was almost yelling, "Go around, go around." The Lt.'s wing landing light had illuminated the first B-17 and he gave the engine full power, first striking the ground and bouncing back into the air, then barely clearing the first plane as he struggled to gain and continue flying speed. Fate must have been on his side. I never before or after have seen an aircraft of this size do this maneuver.

Had this landing been as first attempted, not only Lt. Lathrop would have been a casualty, but many troops in their quarters would have been within danger of the burning bombers. These planes were fully fueled with gasoline for flights the following day. His decision to ''bounce" the 8,000 pound plane off the ground was an instant one, and I believe that was the only way he could have cleared the line of bombers. The Lieutenant's next approach was lined with the runway, and the rest of the mission went as planned.

On January 3, 1942, neither Sergeant Vaughn, my crew chief, nor I had any idea of our ultimate destination when we climbed into the 0-49 plane, for the first leg of a flight. It was now just three weeks since the Japanese had made their surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, and the U.S. had declared war against them and Germany. Our country was in a completely stunned and shaken state of mind. Those of us in the Armed Forces were a little closer to the action.

We did know that we were to proceed to Duncan Field, Texas, which was a maintenance and supply depot. We also knew that the ground echelon of our squadron, which was comprised of all others except the crews of our 0-47s and 0-49s, were to proceed by railroad to the port of embarkation at New Orleans, Louisiana, and we knew that with the short range of these planes, there was no way we could make long over-water flights.

For the past couple of months, our squadron had been packing for an overseas transfer, and going on the clue that we were packing winter flying clothing as well as other cold weather gear, there were strong rumors it was to be Iceland. So on this cold January morning at about 7:30, Sgt. Vaughn, "Scotty," my Scottish terrier dog, and I took to the air along with the other six planes of like model. The 0-47s would follow later and meet us at Duncan Field. We men were wearing our fleece lined boots, flying jacket, and pants. We put Scotty in a barracks bag, pulled the draw string around his neck, leaving only his head sticking out. This gave Scotty protection against the cold and it pretty well immobilized him. While on Sgt. Vaughn's lap, he seemed to enjoy the flight and sometimes barked at the other planes as we flew in close formation.

Our flight leader was Major Lauth, a CO (Commanding Officer) of the Missouri National Guard Squadron. The pilots were all 2nd Lieutenants, and I was the ranking one of this group. Of course, we had radio communication between planes, which came to be a real valuable tool later while we were flying over the jungle of Central America, as Major Lauth called each of us for a report on our fuel supply, etc.

After four hours and 15 minutes, having made fuel stops at Wichita, Kansas, and Tinker Field, Oklahoma, we landed at Hensley Field between Dallas and Fort Worth. At Hensley we had our evening meal and were quartered for the night. The next morning, we made the two hour, 45 minute flight to Duncan Field, and were met by the crews of other planes. Since arriving we had been joined by the ten 0-47s from the Missouri National Guard, and a like number from the Illinois National Guard. These were in addition to ten 0-47s from our squadron, the 1st Observation Squadron.

By this time, we had been informed that our destination was the Panama Canal Zone. On January 10, we took to the air on the two hour, 30 minute flight to Brownsville, Texas. However, immediately after takeoff the engine on my plane became very rough, and I had no alternative but to attempt to return to Duncan. I barely made it back to the field. The engine died completely on the approach, and my landing was a few 100 yards short of the runway. After a new set of spark plugs was installed, I took off again for Brownsville, this time by myself. It was a boring trip over the barren mesquite and grease bushes of this area, and traversing the north-south route over the noted King's Ranch, I arrived at the Brownsville Airport.

That evening, our Commander Colonel Perry B. Griffith, called a meeting of all crews from the approximately 36 aircraft. He wanted to impress upon us that we would be flying over mountains, deserts, and jungle for the next few days, with charts (maps) that were not only incomplete, but in some cases inaccurate. Also, for those of us in the 0-49s, on most legs of the flight, we would be running close on fuel. There was a limited number of places where it was available, and with these stops, in many cases, barely within the range we had.

On January 11, we lifted off the Brownsville Airport, crossed over the Rio Grande River, and said "Adios" to the Estadoes Unidos (United States) on the first leg of the trip over Mexico. Our next stop for fuel was to be Tampico, which is on the Gulf of Mexico. Our stop at Tampico was uneventful. As is true of most sea level cities, the place was not very clean, and housing seemed to consist of shacks. With the fuel tanks full (48 gallons), we continued down the coastline south towards our next stopping point, Vera Cruz. After four hours, 45 minutes of flying time for the day, we arrived at a very crude airport that was only a few feet above sea level. We now had the full compliment of 37 planes, and parking was finally solved but somewhat restricted the only landing strip. I doubted that more than one or two planes a week landed here.

This was to be an overnight stop, so after tying down the planes and leaving some of the crew chiefs as security to guard them, nearly 100 men piled into a few small buses, and left the airport for the trip downtown. In a matter of a mile or so, all buses came to a stop. In the center of the narrow road lay a dead horse. Apparently someone had the misfortune of having his beast of burden die, and felt no responsibility for disposing of the remains. There wasn't room for a vehicle to get around this obstacle but after a 30-minute delay and a long session of much gibberish-sounding dialogue, the horse was dragged off the roadway and we could proceed.

The fact that gasoline was available at these stops was the result of prearrangements. It is likely that the buses were also arranged ahead of time. This probably explained part of the delay while there. The doors also had to be repaired which meant additional delay. On arrival at the downtown area of Vera Cruz, where we were to spend the night, we found the hotel accommodations adequate but a little short of what might be expected in a city of 200,000 population. After a shower, we looked for a restaurant for our evening meal. Many of us decided to eat at one of the many sidewalk cafes, which was a mistake as beggars hounded us and made it difficult to enjoy our dinners. It was early to bed after dinner, in anticipation of our roughest day.

On January 12, we were out to the airport by 7:00 a.m. and with the planes already preflighted, we were soon taking off on the most precarious leg of the entire trip. This included flying through the mountain range, and into a desert-like area south of Oaxaca. This range of mountains, which are a continuation of the Rockies of western U.S., are generally rugged and a challenge for planes with a lower rate of climb, and a limited ceiling (altitude capability). Our planes fit in both categories. After about 90 minutes out, we were approaching the point where we were to commit into whichever of these passes we would choose to make our way through the mountains. The choice was not only the altitude of the passes, but we had to take into account the winds that were strong in any and all of them. Our leader, Major Lauth had led us in a large circle, our planes were being buffeted by these strong winds, and when he began to fly toward the one he had chosen, all but one of our planes followed him- one chose a different pass. As we followed our leader, we were being tossed around in the worst manner that I had ever experienced. Not even in the throes of a thunderstorm had I seen such turbulence. There were no radio conversations, as each of us tried to keep the aircraft upright, and hoped and prayed that the 0-49s would be strong enough to meet the stresses of the winds.

After about 15 minutes, that seemed like hours, the winds began to diminish, and we could at last take a long breath and survey the situation. Items of any density that had not been tied down, had been tossed wildly around the small cabins. Major Lauth took the opportunity to call each of his flight members individually, to check on how they had ridden out this turbulence. Each answered in turn that he and his passenger were a little bruised, but generally okay. The pilot who had chosen his own way discovered his error and ended up being several minutes behind the rest of the flight, but safe. Shortly after regrouping, Major Lauth gave us a general radio call, admitting that he was totally lost. In approximately 15 minutes, we came in sight of a village on a mountain ridge. We circled the town and the Major gave us a general message that we were to circle while he landed in a small clearing along the town. Shortly after his landing, townspeople ran onto the field and completely surrounded his plane. It is likely they had never before seen an airplane this close.

The summary of this mission is that after over 32 hours of flying time and 16 refueling stops, our slow flying aircraft had traversed approximately 3,300 miles from Kansas to the Canal Zone. There was no loss of crew members, and only one instance of damage to the aircraft. The pilots, crew chiefs, and I each received a letter of commendation from the Commanding General of the Sixth Air Force, with this to be a part of our permanent military files. This is a sampling of what it meant to be a pilot in the early years of WW II. As already mentioned, a detailed account is in the Hapeville section of the veterans' book. Looking back over my flying career, one of the highlights was a flight from my Kansas base to Iowa, landing in a field on the family farm, just three weeks before the start of WW II.

My older brother, Eugene, lost his life in this war. He was a Gunner on a B-17 Flying Fortress on a mission over the North Sea, when his plane was shot down by the Germans on July 17, 1943. His memorial is listed with thousands of others on a wall in the Netherlands. My brother, Jim, served as a Marine in the Korean War.

The end of WW II was October 1945. Just before the war's end, I met Dorothy Hunt, my wife of the past 60 years. We were married August 11, 1945, in Alexandria, Louisiana, where I was based at Esler Field. A few days after our wedding, the war ended, and I was discharged in St. Louis, Missouri in October 1945. Shortly thereafter, we bought a grocery store in a small town west of Des Moines, Iowa. We added a frozen food locker and were joined in the enterprise by Ralph and Hazel, Dot's parents.

On April 3rd, 1947, we were blessed with the birth of our first child, Cynthia Louise. Gary Eugene arrived on August 31, 1949, Marie Linda followed on October 2nd, 1952, and Robert David born December 9, 1958. They have presented us with seven grandchildren and six great grandchildren.

After operating the family business for 12 years, we moved to a farm in Doyle Township, near my father's farm, where we were involved in raising livestock as well as grain crops for 27 years before retiring and moving to Osceola. I had a strong love for the soil and the animals that were part of this farming venture.

I served for many years as the Clerk of Doyle Township, including holding the elections for the township in Hopeville. After moving to Osceola, I was on the 2nd Ward election board for several years.

In my retirement years, I was an avid golfer, as well as maintaining a large vegetable garden on the land on which I was born. In addition to these hobbies, I enjoyed fishing in the Grand River and neighboring ponds as long as I was able to navigate the steep banks. One of my pleasures was teaching the grandkids to fish. Also in my retirement years, I spent many hours at the computer writing of the early years of my life including almost six years I spent in the military service of my country. I believe I carried a strong recall (memory) into these later years.

DOROTHY SARAH HUNT JONES

I was born November 12, 1925, to Ralph Bennett Hunt and Hazel Josephine Pryor on the Hunt Homestead at Vashti, North Dakota. Fifteen minutes before my birth, my twin sister, Louise Victoria, had made her appearance, and our parents, along with Doctor Melzer, were all in shock. I don't know why, because I weighed seven pounds and Lou weighed 7 1/2 pounds.

Also welcoming us was our older sister, Donna Fay at 2 ½ years of age. We were the talk of the countryside, as I had two uncles who were attending a dance in the Vashti schoolhouse. They happened to know my Aunt Eulah was attending our mother, so they were awaiting word, and when someone said my folks had twins, the uncles rang the school bell. That's not a good idea in the North Dakota country, as the ringing of a school bell signaled an emergency. People from all around the countryside left their homes to come to the school, only to learn the Hunts had twins. Consequently, very few people forgot the night I was born!

Our other welcoming committee was my grandfather, George Buell Hunt (Grandpa Judd), who was the patriarch of the Hunt family, plus two bachelor uncles, Archie and Albert. Grandpa was like a nursemaid to our mother with her busy life. He would hold one twin while the other nursed, and Mother said he was good at diapering. He helped take care of the three little girls while Mother cooked, baked, cleaned, did laundry, and all the other things a housewife does. And we loved our grandpa. I remember if we got into trouble we would run to him, and he would put us on his lap, and maybe say, "She didn't mean to, Hazel."

No one believes me, but I remember learning to walk - just barely, but I do remember. I think the reason was, Lou and I were learning at the same time and kept bumping into each other, therefore taking many tumbles. I have another memory when I was just a little tyke about three years old. I decided to see what our old dog Shep felt like when he had to eat out of a dish without any hands. He tore my face with bites, and to this day I don't know why I don't have any scars. Daddy shot the dog, and I'm sure he hated doing that. Shep was a good farm dog.

The men of the household pumped water for the laundry, kept the house warm with their loads of wood, and treated our mother with utmost respect. In all her life, she never forgot that. She was accustomed to hard work, being raised in a large family without a father. She made most of the clothes for her mother and siblings, and when needed, if her brothers had a date they couldn't miss, she would go to the barn to milk cows. When she married my dad, he told her farm work was for men, and she would never again have to milk a cow or go to the field. And she never did. She was a classy lady who kept the men in her household well fed and clean.

In those days men hunted but not only for the sport of it but they killed prairie chickens, ducks, geese, wild deer, rabbits, and squirrels for food. The folks had a Model T Ford open in the summer, with curtains that could be snapped down when it was cold. I remember many times when Mother would drive the car, with Dad on the running board, hanging onto the frame of the windshield, and when he spotted game that could be eaten, Mom would bring the car to a screeching halt to give him time to shoot. After coming to Iowa in 1931, Mother never again drove a car.

Dad and Grandpa lost the farm and we moved to Pingree, North Dakota, a few miles from Vashti. I was only four years old, but I remember our two-story house with a basement. The first floor was lighted with a Delco light plant, but there were no lights for the upstairs bedrooms. We three girls - Donna, Lou, and I - took turns carrying the candle holder upstairs at night. I remember that it was brass and had a little crooked handle for carrying it. One night the folks were having a card party so we were sent to bed early. It still wasn't dark and I decided to play a game called, "Pussy in the Corner." It involved each of the three of us getting on a corner of the bed and running to the next comer, trying to catch the other. As each was tagged, she had to get off the bed. Donna, of course, was always the winner - being older and much wiser.

Dad heard the commotion and quietly invited us to come downstairs. We thought we were going to get to stay up with the grownups, but we had a rude awakening when Dad told us to start running around the card tables. As each of us got to one turn, we received a swat on the behind with a yard stick. We were all bawling, mostly from embarrassment, but we never played "Pussy in the Corner" on our beds again.

In lots of homes in those days the living room was used only for company. I particularly remember the living room in the home in Pingree. The double door that led into it had many strings of beads hanging from it. There was a black leather sofa with wooden arms, lace curtains hanging at one bay window and a small one, but the only other furniture I remember were a few straight chairs. Most memorable of all, however, was a real pretty light fixture with a red domed shade, and beautiful fringe hanging down around it. The dining room contained one large round table, which made out into a long table for company, with probably 10 oak chairs, and an oak buffet with a long mirror across the back. It reflected the beautiful vase with soft colors, and a brass base. On the wall was a kerosene lamp with a reflector behind it.

In the kitchen was mother's blue wood range, with warming ovens above and a water reservoir on the side. That held water that heated from the stove, and provided warm water to us to wash. We had oatmeal every morning, but I particularly remember the smells of Mother's home made bread and rolls. Whenever she baked bread she always finished by making us "doughboys." She would take pieces of dough, stretch them out, fry them in lard, and when they were done, she shook them in a paper sack with sugar. What a tasty delight! Another piece of kitchen furniture was a cabinet with an enamel board that pulled out. On that she rolled dough for noodles, pies, and cookies I can smell to this day mostly from the raisins, cinnamon, and ginger. She also made cinnamon pies, which were not as good, but she put raisins for eyes, and they were our happy pies, so we never told her we didn't like them so well.

For water, there was a sink with a wooden drain board, and a small hand pump for cistern water. This was soft rain water caught in the eave spouting and drained into a barrel. When it overflowed from the barrel, it was caught in another pipe which went into a well called a cistern. Not far from the house was our well water, brought into the house in a pail, and put on the sink. It had a long handled dipper and that water was used for drinking and cooking. Sometimes there would be little worms floating in the cistern water so it was for baths and washing the clothes and hair. My mother would never think of washing our hair without following with a vinegar rinse to give it shine. Mother said it was healthy.

One very cold morning, Mother sent me to the well for a pail of water. It hadn't snowed, but I noticed a coating of frost on the pump handle. That seemed to invite me to lick off the frost, but when I did, my tongue stuck. I started screaming and it seemed a very long time before anyone heard me. Mom apparently wondered what was taking so long, and she came running. She saw the problem but couldn't get me loose, so she pumped water into the pail and poured it over my head and mouth. I wonder what kept me from drowning. I sputtered from the water, but I lost the skin off my tongue, which was very painful. Through a neighbor, Mom got hold of the doctor, but there wasn't much he could do.

It goes without saying that when a couple is raising their family, there will be accidental and humorous happenings. An example of the first could be what I told just above, but a more serious one involved a door leading off the kitchen to the basement and the fact that it swung open toward the basement steps. I lost my balance one day when I opened it, and fell the full length of the steps, hitting my head on the sharp comer of the brick chimney. I lay unconscious for quite awhile, and they have told me I almost bled to death. I remember it and have a long scar on the top of my head to remind me.

There are several incidents in the second category: Back of our house there was a long row of trees such as everyone in that area planted for a wind break. Beyond them were grain combines stored by a machine company. We used to play in the bins. It was quite a climb for five and six year old youngsters, but that didn't stop us. Our neighbor girl, Dorothy Vanderlinden, was our age and our playmate. Our folly involving the grain bins stopped when we were caught by our mothers taking down our panties and wetting in the bin to watch it roll ¢town.

Dorothy's parents were gone one day so we played at her house and found the prettiest grape juice that her father was in the habit of drinking. The three of us girls had a party with the grape juice! We felt so good! We ran and danced and sang until suddenly we became very tired. Our parents searched and searched and couldn't find us. They just knew we had been kidnaped by the gypsies who roamed the countryside in horse and wagon trains. By evening the entire town of Pingree was out looking for three little girls, and trying to calm two hysterical mothers. Every building was searched as well as the grain bins, the railroad station, and under the station platform.

My uncle Orville Sampson had a barber shop 1 ½ blocks from our house, and suddenly he remembered that early that afternoon, as he was cutting the hair of a customer, he had seen us across the street from his shop. He crossed the street, looked in a big culvert in a ditch, and there he found three sleeping girls. Someone went immediately to the school house and rang the bell, a signal to the many search parties that we had been found. I don't remember if we got a good "licking" over that or not, but it was the first time we discovered what wine was.

The rumors about gypsies were not unfounded. Our grandfather Judd lived with us in Pingree. In those days, people didn't send their aging grandparents to a nursing home. It is possible there was no such facility. Elderly people were cared for in family homes. However, Grandpa was healthy, happy, and we loved him. If he was a care for Mother, we never knew it. Daddy was an insurance adjuster for Farmers Union Insurance Company, and was home on weekends but gone most of the week, so it was Grandpa Judd whom we leaned on and had fun with. He had a fancy Model T coupe with windows, and we girls loved to ride with him. One day he was going to a garage mechanic for some needed repairs, and we went along. We were playing outside the garage when a wagon train of gypsies pulled up in their big cars to buy gasoline. We were so excited to see the gypsy women with their bright colored dresses, large gold looped earrings, and bright colored bands around their long hair.

All of a sudden, Grandpa herded us into the car with instructions, "Get down in the bottom and stay there!" We did as we were bid; shaking in our shoes, because we'd heard that gypsy caravans kidnapped little children. After they left and the work on Grandpa's car was finished, we started for home. Grandpa reached for his pocket watch to check the time and it was gone! The gypsies were known for their ability to pick pockets and do slight-of-hand. He concluded they had taken it and was he mad! Mother said, "Besides, he was an old flirt!" That could have made him careless, so maybe the pretty gypsy women had an advantage

In the middle of the night of January 21, 1931, we three girls were rousted from our beds, dressed with the help of Grandpa Judd, and led out of the house. We went through huge snow drifts the block and a half to Aunt Eulah and Uncle Orville's house. I don't remember what excuse they gave us. We only knew we had to go to spend the remainder of the night with our cousins, Midge and Betty. The next morning, Dad picked us up at Aunt Eulah's house and said he had a surprise for us! We walked quietly into our house and were led to Mom's room. There she was in bed and we were introduced to our new baby sister, Ruth. It was a shock but everything was overshadowed by this darling baby. She became our official toy. We coddled her and spoiled her until the day she left home, some 18 years later.

It may not have been as pleasurable for Dad. Now there were four daughters, and I am sure he would have wished for a son. He loved to hunt, and that just was not in the picture with girls! So he continued to hunt with his brothers and a friend, Art Knauff, a lawyer who lived in Jamestown, where my dad had taken his internship in Knauff s Law Office, while attending Jamestown College before the war started. Dad was a veteran of World War I, serving in France and Germany. He was a Signal Man in the 23rd Infantry, 2nd Division.

That same winter was memorable for another reason! The snow came, drifting to the height of an upstairs window. I remember Dad shoveling through tunnels of snow to get it away from the door. After all, we had to get snow to melt for cooking and drinking. Three days later, when the snows stopped, Dad and the neighbor men dug tunnels, by hand, to open a path to the school house. That was the first time I remember taking my lunch to school. It was packed in a Karo syrup can that contained a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and an orange. It smelled so good that I can still remember that smell!

Grandpa died in August 1932, and we were devastated. It was my first personal tragedy, and such a loss! We'd known him as long, and he'd been as much a part of our lives, as our parents. A second tragedy for me came in the same year when Dad was transferred to a place called Iowa. The company was based in Des Moines, but not wanting to live in a large city, Dad chose Indianola, where some of the company owners lived. They helped my folks find a house. I don't remember a lot about it, except for a screened in porch, and the yards and gardens had the most beautiful flowers we girls had ever seen! We learned later they were hollyhocks. Lou and I decided to gather the blooms and sell them to our neighbors. The market for our product was not great because these flowers grew wild in everyone's yards. So our first venture as sales people was not only a failure, but when someone informed our mother what we were doing, it ended abruptly.

A year later we moved to another rented home, and it was lovely. On moving day Mom had to be gone for awhile and Lou and I decided we would surprise her by being Mother's little helpers. We would unpack a large laundry basket of beautiful dishes that was sitting on the kitchen counter. It wasn't positioned where we could do that, so we took hold of handles on each end to move it to the table in the center of the room. As we pulled it across the counter, we discovered it was too heavy, and down it went! Dishes and basket fell to the floor, breaking a good share of them. Dad heard the commotion, and without taking into account that we only wanted to help, we got a licking like you wouldn't believe, and were sent to bed in our strange new bedroom. I never forgot that! If Grandpa Judd had been there, he would have said, "Hazel, they didn't mean to."

There are happier memories of that house. Dad made us a large swing and a trapeze from the limb on a tree outside the living room window. The neighborhood was full of kids and we made many friends there. From that house I remember finding the public library and my love for reading. I would rush to get my work done - making my bed, doing the dishes, and dusting - so I could go to the library. They had some strange magnifying glasses to look into. We put a card in a frame and pictures would come alive. I learned later their name was stereopticons. We also were rewarded for being good by getting to go to the show on Saturday afternoons at the old Empress Theater, which still stands today. For a dime admission, we saw every Shirley Temple movie that was made, cartoons of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Popeye, and Olive Oil. In the summertime there were always tent shows produced by an entourage of actors who set up at the fairgrounds.

Lou and I had attended first grade in North Dakota so we started school in Indianola in the second grade. Our teacher was Mrs. Kramer, and we thought she must be 100 years old. She was short and fat, and wore her hair in a little pug on the back of her head. She carried a little stick with her all the time, and if she needed to discipline someone by giving them a rap with her stick, it was handy. However, she was a true friend to Lou and me.

Before we were really acclimated to Iowa's winters, we wore what we were accustomed to wearing as protection from the severe North Dakota winters - long underwear, long cotton socks, and black bloomers. We also had heavy woolen coats with fur collars and cuffs, ear muffs, and long stocking caps. Our high fur-lined overshoes buckled to our knees. This led to our being shamed by cruel children. How was we to know what was wrong when kids sneered, laughed, hooted, and pointed? We didn't know whether to laugh or cry so I decided on crying. Mrs. Kramer asked why and I finally admitted that I had no idea why this was happening.

The next day she stopped class and told the children she would like to know why the class was treating the new children from North Dakota in such a manner. Their answer was, "They wear black bloomers ...and long underwear!" We were so embarrassed. When we told mother that afternoon, she was mortified and furious! "How dare they!" She wanted to have a talk with Mrs. Kramer but we thought that would only make matters worse, and we asked her to make us some pretty underwear. How she scrambled up some silk panties that night is beyond me, but she did. She sat at the sewing machine long after we went to bed, and in the morning, we had pretty panties that didn't come to our knees. We froze, but the Hunt kids were never sneered at again! No one was more clothes conscious than our mother. Outside of our shoes, she made everything we wore.

Our next house was on the east side of town near the stock yards, and it held many memories for me- some pleasant, many most unpleasant. Times were getting rough so we had many bums or transients, the unemployed, who came begging for food. Mother rarely turned them down but fixed something in a pie tin, and told them to sit on the back step to eat. We had huge gardens so a necessary labor was canning food to take us through the winter. Donna's chores were mostly helping Mom with housework and gardening. Lou's and my chores were mowing the yard, and going to the ice house every three days to get 25¢ worth of ice. One day we had a violent storm. The rain lashed at our windows, and when it was over, we had about six feet of water flooding the basement, and Mother's Maytag washing machine was floating on top of the water.

That was just one in a series of bad things that happened while we lived there. It was in this house that I remember having the childhood diseases - mumps, chicken pox, and measles. I also contracted scarlet fever from a neighbor girl. It was terribly serious in those days as there was no way to fight it. Inoculations or effective medications were far in the future. When it was known that a resident in our house had scarlet fever, the mortician brought a gray wreath and hung it on the door. Dad was so afraid of getting it that the living room was boarded up and he saw me only through the window of my room.

That disease left me with complications. I was prone to streptococci, a throat infection, which in those days was called Quinsy. The combination of these problems affected my eyes and I suffered horrible dizzy spells. At night I would lay at the foot of my folks' bed, hoping their presence would make the dizziness go away. They thought I was faking it but after the doctor's tests, he assured them I needed glasses. He also recommended that I have my tonsils removed. When that procedure was done, and I had new glasses, which brought my left eye out of its crossed position, I was on the road to health. However, I missed so much school that year, that the teachers recommended I repeat the grade. My parents did not want my twin always to be a year ahead of me, so with Lou's and Donna's help I was able to progress to the next grade.

What more could happen? A lot! The Depression hit along with a drought never equaled in Iowa's history, and Dad lost his job. Grasshoppers moved in, destroying what we had of a garden. I clearly remember my parents rocking in each others arms, crying. The 1930 Plymouth Dad drove for the company was taken back. Everyday Dad went out to seek a job, but there was no work anywhere. Being more ingenious than some, he borrowed a team of horses and wagon from a friend in the American Legion, and went out to the timbers to cut wood for the rich. He also took a job which was far beneath his qualifications, and which he hated - he carried a gunny sack and spear, picking up papers and debris from the campus and football field at Simpson College. He even stood in bread lines day after day because his wife and children were hungry. Through the goodness of her heart, our landlord, Mrs. Lee, allowed us to be in arrears with rent. And the IGA grocer allowed my parents to charge, knowing that he could depend on their honesty to pay him eventually. I remember that we lived on nothing but corn bread and beans for months on end.

We expected nothing when Christmas came, but on Christmas morning, by our living room door, there was one doll. All four of us took turns holding her and we never argued about it. We sang carols, Dad read "The Night before Christmas," which we had heard many times before, but we never forgot that night when Dad read it to us, and that Christmas was the greatest one of all!

Good things began to happen: A neighbor, Mrs. Mardin, came to our house with a bunch of clothes - mostly her husband's suits, and Mother took out all the seams, converting the garments into a skirt for each of us girls and a jacket. Someone, we suspected Mrs. Lee, must have reported our dire straits to the American Legion, and as long as I live I will never forget the pickup truck that pulled into our drive. Three or four men, laden with food supplies, came to our back door. There was 100 pounds of flour, 50 pounds of sugar, coffee, beans, eggs, milk, lard, and oranges. Mother sobbed, Dad cried and hugged the men who said, "My God, Ralph, why didn't you come to us?" We were all so thin I wonder why we didn't have rickets or some other disease of the under-nourished.

The American Legion helped further. Before long Dad was being interviewed by various people and was offered a job with the Iowa State Income Tax Division in Des Moines. The Legion gave him money to enable him to commute from Indianola. I don't know how my parents managed to save enough to pay Mrs. Lee all the back rent, or the IGA store who charged groceries for 1 ½ years but they did it. No more bread lines! Now our tummies were full of the baked bread and cookies we had been without for a long time.

We were certainly not the only family in such a situation. Many people were still starving when Dad went to work. The drought was so serious that there was no feed for cattle and other livestock. They ate the leaves off the trees as high as they could reach. Many animals were too weak to stand and out of sympathy, the farmers killed them. People begged to let them eat those animals but doctors advised against it, so bulldozers were used to bury them in large pits.

Finally Mom and Dad could see their way clear to buy a little house at 304 East Boston. They paid $750 for it and remodeled as money permitted. They didn't use the coal shed behind the house because we had an oil burner, so we girls cleaned it out and had a playhouse. Lou and I were always thinking of things to do, so we formed a neighborhood club of girls our age, meeting in the old coal house. It was at 304 East Boston that Donna had her first beau. We were enough younger than she, that we often tormented her. In this instance, heat to our room came up from the living room through a floor register that happened to be just above the sofa. When Donna and her beau, Jim Davis, were on the sofa necking, we would throw things down the register on them. She didn't disappoint us. She would yell at Mom and Dad, "Make those darned twins quit that!"

When I was 13 years old, I joined band and Dad purchased a C Melody Saxophone for me. I played sax all though high school. Lou played the bass drum and cymbals, and she was good! It was at this stage in my life when I started to comb my hair, polish my nails, and in general tried to make myself attractive to the opposite sex. It worked and our mother, whom we considered old-fashioned, was kept busy being on hand whenever fellows came courting the three Hunt girls. When the folks bought the beautiful home at 400 West Boston (for $1950) we were only a block from Simpson College Campus, a haven for good-looking guys. We girls loved that!

I graduated from Indianola High School in 1943 and accepted various secretarial jobs in the Des Moines area. We were in the throes of World War II. My parents wanted my sisters and me to attend college, but it was so easy to get a job with all the men going to war, and it was money that helped make the decision. I worked in the office of Solar Aircraft that made parts for the many airplanes our military needed.

In 1945, I met a handsome Air Corps Pilot, Major Dale Carl Jones, who became my soulmate for over 60 years. We were married August 11, 1945 in Alexandra, Louisiana, where he was based at Esler Field. A few days after our wedding, the war ended. Dale was offered the opportunity to go to Japan for the Army of Occupation, but he was tired of Air Force life, and chose to opt out of the service. He was discharged in St. Louis, Missouri in October 1945, and we started our new life shortly thereafter by purchasing a grocery store and locker plant at Menlo, Iowa.

And then the kids started arriving, four in all. The first three were born at Dexter, Iowa. Our oldest child, Cynthia Louise (Cindy) Jones, was born April 3, 1947. When we lived at Menlo, she started school, as did Gary and Maria. Cindy was an active child, so we let her start dancing lessons at age five - tap, ballet, and tumbling. We proudly attended all her recitals, and thought she was better than her dancing companions, of course.

When Gary Eugene Jones was born on August 31, 1949, we had the ideal family - a girl and a boy! How lucky can you get? Gary was a robust youngster, loved choo-choos, which he could see from the living room window. He could watch the black smoke pour out of the engines as they choo chooed down the tracks a few blocks south of our little house.

The birth of Maria Linda Jones on October 2, 1952 raised our ideal family to three little Joneses. Her hair was black as coal, while Cindy and Gary were blonds, so we had quite a contrast in the three. Maria was always the quiet one, and still is. Her daughters, however, tell she does have a temper, and to beware if she gets annoyed.

When Cindy was 12 years of age, we sold our business on Main Street in Menlo. We'd had a good business there, but larger supermarkets were coming close to us, and mom and pop grocery stores were starting to suffer. Also, people were buying their own deep freezes to keep meat frozen. They didn't need a locker plant to take care of this.

In 1957, we moved to the farm in Doyle Township, Clarke County. A loss I felt in this move was leaving my elderly parents in Menlo, and they were devastated. Even though they wished us much success in our new endeavor, we were taking away their three grandchildren. The farm we rented bordered on Dale's father's land and was to the west of his brother Jim's land, and it helped with my feeling of being lost that we were close to relatives.

Our fourth child, Robert David Jones, was born December 9, 1958 in Osceola less than a year after we had moved to the farm in Clarke County. His sisters and brother thought he was a living doll. They carried him around on anything they found handy, from boxes to wagons, to sleds, to carts. So now we really were an ideal family, two girls and two boys!

Our family was growing up and we were lucky to be able to send them to a good school in Murray, which to this day we have never regretted. They all blossomed. They had terrific teachers, accumulated many friends, the boys were in football and basketball, the girls in glee club, chorus, and cheerleading. Both girls were prom queen candidates. Our life was our children. Except for an illness or emergency, we attended every function in which they participated - basketball and football games, and every event in which they had a part. They all graduated from Murray - Cindy in 1965, Gary in 1967, Maria in 1970, and Bob in 1977. They all attended college, Cindy and Maria with degrees, and the boys with two years under their belts.

It is difficult to write of one's life on a few pages of paper, but I have one memory I would like to leave for posterity. In 1974, I lost my right leg to cancer. It was probably the most traumatic time of my life. I will never forget the people who sent me get well cards. I received over 300 of them, and one of the nurses who attended me in the hospital in Iowa City, asked one day if I was a "V.I.P." (Very Important Person), because one day alone I received 32 cards. I couldn't think of how to answer her, so I just said, "I must be, to them."

This loss has had an impact on my life in many ways. I miss the fact I can't babysit for my grandchildren, or carry them to look out a window at the birds, as I did with my children, or dance with my husband as I used to. I try never to complain, but as I get older, nothing becomes easier. It was during my recuperation after my amputation, when I needed something to head off the pain, that I rolled out my old Remington typewriter and decided to compile the family genealogy into one compact book, possibly for publication.

The typing day after day and sometimes into the night, helped with my therapy, and I found myself forgetting the awful pain in my "stump," the phantom pain that I still feel almost every minute to this very day - like feeling my toes wiggle, and my knee bending when sitting.

Getting through that time of my life, I owe to pursuing my love of genealogy. It first started when my father died in 1963. When my mother, sisters, and I were going through the closet in his office at home, we discovered a small box, about 12x12 inches, which contained some old pictures and a good many letters tied with a blue ribbon. I asked my mother if she had ever seen this box and she said, "No, Dad was such a historian, he loved old letters and memorabilia, and I never paid much attention to it." She said, "Just throw it all away!" I grabbed the box and said, "I think I'll take it home with me and someday I'll go through it to see what interested him in keeping it."

One day I called sister Lou, and told her I was going through the box and asked if she wanted to come down to the farm and go through it with me. She said yes, she certainly did. What a day in my life that turned out to be! We started first undoing the old letters, really not knowing what most of the names meant to us. But, we started with the oldest letter, written in 1829 to Jemima, from your husband, Aaron, inquiring how all the children were, telling his son Lyman to buy his mother snuff, and how was Mary Ann, as he remembered her. Most priceless of all, a leaf from the family Bible, entitled "Children of Jemima (Rolfe) Bennett," and listing the birthdays of all 12 of her children, starting with the oldest in 1801. I eventually learned that Aaron and Jemima were my great-greatgrandparents.

Some of the other older letters were written in 1834, 1850, and 1852. My curious mind began working non-stop. Not knowing where to start looking for these people, I started putting names to different families. I finally connected a name in Ithaca, New York, got on the phone, and called the Ithaca Library. Lo and behold, the woman who answered the phone lived on the old Rolfe property. She knew the family, was familiar with the Rolfe Cemetery and its custodian, and that is how I connected the families as they lived in the Ithaca area, and when they started coming west, settling in Wisconsin and Minnesota.

Besides working on our family genealogies since 1963 and setting them all up on the computer, I have published three books - "Hopeville and Vicinity," "The Joneses, Your Welsh Heritage," and "The Family of Benjamin J. Hamilton." Since 1974, the year I lost my leg, I have done a lot of research for people looking into their family histories and have donated much of my work to the Osceola Library and some to the Clarke County Historical Society.

We retired to Osceola from the farm in 1985. We were lucky to be able to spend 14 years as snow birds, going south to New Braunfels, Texas, where we enjoyed the weather, which was balmy most of the time. Dale enjoyed golfing, walking, and we took many trips around the vicinity, meeting new friends, playing bridge, and other card games.

Our children, and now our grandchildren and great grandchildren, of course remain a very important part of our lives. After high school graduation in 1965, Cindy attended Southwestern Community College in Creston, receiving an associate's degree after two years. Then for two years she attended the University of Northern Iowa at Cedar Falls, before she left for Ft. Worth, Texas to attend the American Airlines Stewardess College, graduating in June, 1969. After that, she was based in New York City for five years. It was while she was flying that she met her husband, Alan Bruce Lite of Philadelphia. They were married on November 21, 1971, and settled near Philadelphia where their two children were born - Melanie Joy Lite and Steven Brandon Lite. Cindy pursued her education later, and on the second day of June 1991, she graduated with a B.A. degree from Rider College at Lawrenceville, New Jersey. In 1976, they bought a home in Yardley, Pennsylvania, where the children were raised and graduated from high school. Alan commutes to New York City where he is vice president of sales for Mamiye Sales, Inc., a children's clothing line. They also have a home in Port St. Lucie, Florida to which they commute once or twice a month.

After Gary's high school graduation, he attended Southwestern Community College at Creston, and worked as a disc jockey for KSIB radio station. He then attended Northwest Missouri State College for a year, working during the summer for his father's cousin in the oil fields of Kansas. In December 1969, he married his high school sweetheart, Mary Winter, and they had two sons, Scott and Eric. Their marriage ended in divorce in 1977.

After high school graduation in 1970, Maria attended Iowa State University in Ames, majoring in Child Development, graduating with a B.S. degree. She then attended Southwest State University at Marshall, Minnesota, and Mankato State University at Mankato, Minnesota, where she worked on her Masters degree. She married Peter Michael Balbo on May 28, 1978, at Lake Shetek, Minnesota, and they became the parents of two daughters - Jessica and Alysha.

Maria and Peter moved from Marshall, Minnesota to Manchester, New Hampshire, where Peter was working at Abcor Company, as Plant Engineer traveling all over the United States. It was in Manchester where Maria continued her studies and graduated with a Masters degree from Notre Dame College at Manchester. After all these years, she is now working on her PhD at the University of Minnesota. She works as Early Childhood Special Education Coordinator at Willmar, Minnesota. The Balbos live in Litchfield, Minnesota.

After his high school graduation in 1977, Bob attended Southwestern Community College at Creston for one year, then farmed with his father for a few years, met and married Bobbi Oliver on November 27, 1982. They became parents of a daughter, Samantha Jo. The marriage ended in divorce, and Bob decided to go to school to become a USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) food inspector. His first duty was in Garden City Kansas where he attended Junior College and was sent by the government to attend special training classes at Texas A & M at College Station, Texas. He was then sent to Riverside, California as a Federal Food Technician. His other places of work took him to Elkhart, Indiana, Davenport, Iowa, and he is now at Lenox, Iowa, where he is inspector in a large egg plant. He lives in and commutes from New Virginia, Iowa.

By this time our grandchildren have presented us with six great grandchildren: Austin, Tyler, and Kylee Jones, Jordan Jones, Jaidon Matthews, and Cadence Gaiser. We have been very proud of our family, and what they have achieved.