Life South of the Platte

    It is said that age two has a significant amount of psychological significance. I put a great deal of faith in this belief. I was two when my parents built a new home and moved off the ranch-Though Dad continued to ranch, I was left with only a pocketful of memories: the hired hand picked me up out of  red ant pile, the rooster that attacked me, tumbling down the basement steps, my father's plane crash-I guess it is also true that we remember the traumatic events at a very young age.
     Moving left me with a  hollow spot. While I heard about the country happenings, I didn't get to experience them. For example, there was the rural women's Union Aid Society. These women served at the North Platte Canteen during the war. They served angel food cake to the soldiers coming through on the train. They contributed to polio by earning money at their ice cream socials held in  July. They used the milk train to take canned produce to Omaha for the orphans at the Nebraska Children's home. They also had summer picnics, showers for new brides, and did quilting together. How homey. They even held a bizarre, selling homemade goodies and crafts once a year.
    Then too, the country school was just down the road a mile with the south hills and fields surrounding the playgrounds. At Christmastime, they had a stage for plays and during the spring, played hop scotch and jumped rope. An Oregon Trail marker sat out front. Cars went past at regular intervals with people they knew waving. I can picture the kids walking home in the rain and picking up frogs and earthworms and snow as high as the big red barns.When the school wasn't having classes, there were socials-decorated box lunches where a guy bought the lunch and ate with the girl. How romantic and nostalgic
   The other link was Banner, the country church-surrounded by the same tall hills and corn fields. I remember riding there in our car-It had blinds for the windows, and I recall sitting in a musty basement room eating cheerios.I can hear the songs they sang. Moreover,I see the people on Sunday afternoons during the war. They used the school and church for neighborhood get together s. 
   Not one to let life pass me by, I so longed to live these experiences, that I spent four years writing a book about a family that lived on our place. I got to be in the minds of my characters, thereby reliving the past that I missed. Those four years were so wonderful that now I'm doing a second book. Trauma causes terrible feelings, but in my case,  the ending is marvelous. I'm back on the farm. "The Rag Princess" is a never ending series of stories. I will live each event to the fullest. Join the ride and read along with me as I write.

Pastor Gooming Twelve Year Old-The Rag Princess-More Scenes

The Rag Princess-Out February by Barb Franzen-Child abused-Grows up and meet rancher  Will Temple from the past. From vicious abuse to tender love story. By child therapist Barb Franzen

 For winning he had a surprise. A red hearts necklace just happened to be in his desk. He would like to put it on her if she would like to have it. "Oh yes, she would love it!" she said finding this unbelievable. Would there be more things to come. Sylvie hadn't given her anything since she'd arrived and it was special to have something form a man that everyone was in love with. Slipping it around her neck, his hands caressed her upper arms. It felt oddly wonderful however fatherly he meant the caress. bending so that she could feel his warm breath on her neck, she reared back embarrassed, shocked. What could she do but giggle. It was just a gesture he was used to, but it had felt surprisingly good. He was saying that everything in here had to be their secret. 'oh yes, she said, that would be fine. It would e just the way she and Ginny Temple ahd done it. He reached over with a bowl of candy then set it down and took one which he placed in the palm of her hand. What a nice soft hand she ahd and maybe he would lotion it for her if she was good, That was it for tonight. He would see her next week when they would talk about her friendships and how she was feeling. Wasn't it nice of Sylvie to want this for her? And wasn't Sylvie a wonderful person. He had talked with Sylvie about all of the things they did in here. Good bye and goodnight. As she was slipping out the door he said, "hey let’s do some mentoring on a country picnic. It will be warm enough time after next."
 The second week he had a second gift. This one was awaiting her but when she reached for it, he said, "No I was just kidding." You have to prove yourself Miss. It's very expensive and the kind that Sonny told me to get for you.
  "Why" she asked. “I didn't do anything for a gift.”
    He smiled sort of looking her over--a look that make her happy and uneasy both. It seemed a little sexy or as if he was thinking of her like that. "Let's talk, “he said. 

My Home-Nebraska Sandhills-Prairieland

   I am passionate about the Nebraska Prairie. As a child growing up just outside the small town of Brady,Nebraska,  my father's ranch was nine miles south (with clay soil), while we lived  at the foot of the Sandhills. It was here that I spent hours hiking the hills, hunting for the lake that "didn't exist," and chasing lizards whose tails fell off in my hands. I also found snakes and blowouts from which I jumped, enjoying the free sail through the air. The Sandhills were barren and greatly void of trees. Loaded with various grasses and a sand base, they made wonderful grazing country for cattle. Raising crops was harder due to lack of irrigation and water. A classmate had a party one night and a friend and I sat and looked over the land from a hilltop. Some forty nine years later, I remember how the snow reminded of a huge ocean under the moonlight.That land spread out for miles, hill after hill, unhampered. It was awesome.
   My wish was to spend a winter up there, a really bad blizzard, snowed in. I wanted generated heat, garden produce, canned meat, and all the amenities needed for survival in this less populated area of the United States. Little did I know that these hills were one of a kind. That they weren't to be found anywhere else in the world. Today, authors write a fair amount about them and the people who lived there.I find the Sandhills  most beautiful at sunset, during the winter, when they take on a cold bluish hue that makes me want to fix warm stew when I go home.
   The Sandhills were filled with jack rabbit and pheasants. I used to go with my dad who hunted these rabbits.. I have a picture of me standing on the hill with about six rabbits dangling from my arm..Other times, Dad would go pheasant hunting and he and his pharmacist friend, and a man named, Doc Pyle, would go up north and shoot these birds.Both the rabbit and  pheasant made for delicious eating-I keep feeling that I should apologize. I wasn't the hunter and I didn't watch. Anyway, along with these, I would listen to the coyote howl at bedtime, an eerie, but wonderful sound. Rather lonely.
   One day when I was alone and hiking-I went to my favorite blowout and was on my way home, I looked down and saw a fully beaded and most colorful snake. It took my breath away-both because it was http://templeranch.wordpress.combeautiful and also because I feared it might be poisonous-though I knew it wasn't a rattler. As I remember it had blue and orange beading. I still wonder what it was that I encountered.
    I had a relative, Art Nelson, who owned the Big Dipper Ranch up in the Sandhills north of Brady in Wild Horse Valley. His cattle brand was made to represent a dipper, and he had cowboy boots on the top of the fence posts, used to greet people. At least one pair of boots were still there a few years back.
    I am going to stop here with the Sandhills. I will return with the clay hills, south of the Platte in the Platte River Valley next time. After that, I want to write about the plains in their very early state before they were settled by hundreds of pioneers. After that I have my vast collection of literature to share from.
   The wondrous prairie with its grass, wildlife, flowers, and all that makes it quaint and charming, is part of my heartbeat and soul.  Please share your thoughts and knowledge.I would be most grateful. 

From -The Rag Princess by Barb Franzen

This is a later scene from the Rag Princess-hopefully out by Christmas. The war has just begun and Will and Celeste were on the way to the movie but take a detour out to what would have been Pioneer Park were it built in  1941,--- Will  was turning the car around. No movie for him when something huge had just begun. Before long he’d be bombing the Japanese. After all, he would be   among the first to go over. What did that mean? Did the first to go ever come home? Go first-die first? Suddenly he was gripped with terror.

     Celeste was still grasping what she’d heard. War! Japan, United States, Pearl Harbor…where and what was that?  Franklin Roosevelt…War! Will…No! Not Will! He couldn't leave her, not now…not ever.  She could feel Will’s terror. Will would undoubtedly be one of the first to go. She looked over at  him and suppressed a sob…a scream… NO- She was not going to fall apart. Hadn't she  just discussed his strengths versus hers, with him?  She'd told him he was dependable and supportive? If his face was any indication of what she could do, then by golly she would. She would not fall apart on him. If there was one thing  Sylvie had taught her, it was what people needed when they were trapped and fearful and lonely and all of those hideous dark things. She would be Will's cookies and letters and more than that, she would be his unconditional love.

     “Will, this is your chance to show your stuff  and learn your stunt flying.”

              “You think so.?” he asked,