Uncle Herman

Uncle Herman was a farmer. He stayed on the farm where he was born and lived to see it renamed A Century Farm. Two years younger than my mother, they played together as kids, riding their ponies Roman style. The tomboy sister and little brother team were risk-takers and dare-devils growing up on an Iowa farm, where they learned that hard work was never something to be feared.

Somewhere along the way, Uncle Herman learned to laugh. He would throw his head back and let out one of those accordion laughs that just kept rolling out of his mouth and bounced around in the air for a long time. He loved to laugh. It became his most endearing quality.

As a child he was known to walk and talk in his sleep. One summer night he rolled out of bed, through an open second story window, picked himself up, walked back in the front door and up the stairs where he tossed his body into his bed—all without waking up. He learned of his night-time adventure the next morning from his older brother. Uncle Herman just laughed and kept right on laughing.

After Uncle Herman married my Aunt Doris, they built a new house on the farm. Aunt Doris announced that she would have dinner ready at noon, not a minute before or after. Uncle Herman reacted to this command with, “I’ll be jiggered if I’m gonna let that woman tell me how to run my farm.”

Uncle Herman brought his family to town every Saturday night. Dressed like most of the country folk, he sported a striped or plaid cowboy shirt that fit snugly around his expanding middle that hung over an oversized belt buckle. Cowboy boots and slim jeans made the lower half of his body appear a size smaller than the top half. The boots made his body tilt slightly forward when he walked the walk of a farmer—never in a hurry. His blue eyes and broad forehead went unnoticed because of his Dagwood-style shocks of hair that stood straight up at the temples.

Friendly with everyone, he might start a conversation with, “Howdy, Harve,
how ‘r your beans gettin’ along? Gonna have a good corn crop this year?”

Uncle Herman liked his meat cooked to a well done state and even beyond. On one occasion in a restaurant his steak came to the table with a small amount of blood oozing from the steak. In sending it back to the kitchen to finish cooking, he summed up the condition of the steak with this line, “I’ve seen cows hurt worse than that, get better.”

One summer afternoon Uncle Herman was driving his Chevy back to his farm with his son and daughter, ages five and seven. The roller coaster hills throughout the Iowa countryside can cause a tummy tickle at the moment the car tops the hill and begins the descent. “Give us a tummy tickle, Daddy.” the kids said. Topping the hill into the glaring sunset, Uncle Herman’s car was hit head on by another car. His car rolled backwards several times coming to a stop at the bottom of the hill. The two children were thrown from the car. Uncle Herman crawled from the flattened vehicle. Seeing his daughter lying in the ditch, he reassured her and began looking for his son. The little boy’s body was visible, but his head was beneath the overturned car. Uncle Herman immediately lifted the car off of his son’s head and managed to walk to the nearest farmhouse for help. He did this with a broken back. The children had broken bones and concussions. Several months and a lot of miracles later, they all made complete recoveries.

Uncle Herman was very protective of his kids. One night, his advice to his teen-age son was, “Now son, you high-tail it home by midnight, ya’ hear? Almost nothin’ good happens after midnight.”

Uncle Herman loved to ride horses, owned several, and entered every horse race in the area. One year he built a chariot with the bottom half of a 55 gallon barrel. He attached a set of old car wheels at each end of an axle beneath the barrel, hitched it up to a team of horses and set out for adventure. He won the chariot races at the fair, laughing all the way across the finish line. His laugh could be heard above the cheering spectators. Uncle Herman knew how to have fun. “By golly, I reckon that dad-gummed chariot had ought ‘ta win another race or two. I’m a keepin’ it.”

Uncle Herman and Aunt Doris made the long car journey from Iowa to Southern California several times to see their daughter and grandchildren. To say that they disliked California freeways is the biggest understatement of the year. Uncle Herman’s summary of freeways was, “That’s just a big racetrack out there. Blast it all, I like to see a finish.”

Uncle Herman’s health began to fail in his mid-seventies. His respiratory illness caused alarm for the whole family, especially my mother, his closest sibling and life-long friend. When their oldest granddaughter invited them to her wedding in California, Uncle Herman and Aunt Doris promised they would be there. During their flight to the west coast, Uncle Herman told Aunt Doris that he had an important phone number in his suit pocket. It was the number of the undertaker back home. “Just in case this trip does me in,” he said.

They arrived at their daughter’s home two days before the wedding. Relatives in California were not prepared to see his frail body. He was no longer strong enough to give us one of his endearing laughs. He spent the first night in the hospital emergency room. His coughing could not be controlled. He died early the next morning, the day before his granddaughter’s wedding.

It was time to use the telephone number in his suit pocket.