A LETTER TO ELMER KARNS FROM HIS NIECE

A LETTER TO ELMER KARNS FROM HIS NIECE, SARA JEAN RILEY

Oct. 31, 1970
Dear Uncle,
The attached article from the November Reader's Digest [concerning early memories]--together with my heartfelt wish that I could have come with mother last weekend--prompts this letter. I read the article Monday night after everyone was in bed; and, slowly at first, then almost rhythmically like waves rushing up on the sand, memories began tumbling in on the shores of my mind . . .
Of course I remember the special days, the holidays, the reunions; but there are so many others, too.
Some I've thought of often, and shared with many friends and loved ones. First in this category is the penciled postcard, the delightful loving poem about the harvest and the newborn kittens, you wrote to me. I still recall the thrill that long-ago day of discovering--for the first and only time--that instead of a card or letter quoting you, I actually had one from you. That was not only a childhood treasure but for many years an adult one as well, one still treasured in memory. [See a copy of the poem below.]
Also oft-repeated is that hilarious (in retrospect--it wasn't all that funny then) episode of the tiny baby mice you carefully gathered up out in the granary and put in a box for me, telling me they were baby pigs. (I saw some baby mice that size in the LSU [Louisiana State University] animal lab last week, and with a little imagination they still look like baby pigs!) I rushed to the house with that box, down the basement stairs to show Auntie, Colleen and Melva Jean, and spilled them every which way to the accompaniment of mild but definitely outraged feminine shrieks.
Poignantly, with awesome clarity, I remember what must have been the only times in childhood when I was truly, desperately, despairingly sorry for something I'd done. The time in the basement when I played with that forbidden temptation, your round shaving mirror, and broke it. You eyed me sadly and told me where you'd gotten it and how many years you'd had it. And I wished miserably that I could just disappear. Then there was the time you found a tiny not-even-any-feathers-yet baby sparrow out by the chicken house before I'd caught up with you. You turned with it hidden in your hand, said 'shut your eyes and hold out your hands'--I was so startled at that shivering, palpitating naked little bit of life that I dropped it, and once again, so ashamed, made you sad.

Very-little-girl memories, from the time of the old two-story farmhouse:

You rescuing kittens from the basement during the flood, the water slowly but inexorably rising step by step.
Getting caught sucking the corners of the new cloth sugar sacks after a trip to the store; also getting caught out in the corral in my best dress licking the new salt lick--and scaring the daylights out of everyone when I was discovered 'cause the bull was in the corral.
Being given a penny, or pickle, tied in the corner of a hankie, to keep me quiet in church.
You shaking powder inside my cast before bedtime when I had my collarbone broken.
The bewildering excitement of the stubble field catching fire.
Learning to ride the full-size bike--and my surprise the first time I looked back to find Colleen far behind me no longer holding on to the back fender.
Mixed-up pride and stage-fright the first time I had a "piece" in the Christmas pageant at church.

What seems to be one of my very earliest memories is being hoisted up to the top of whatever-model-Ford-had-a-sort-of-rubber-roof to watch the 4th of July fireworks.
You giving me one of Fluffy's kittens to take home when I left--reluctantly--to go to Dodge City.

And later:
I remember being taught to drive the tractor (at the ripe age of 9); the big truck a year later--and a lesson learned that day lingers still, "A good driver should be able to go up and down hills without losing or gaining speed"--; the new, blue '48 Plymouth?
I remember learning to drive the black '46 pickup (and you shooting at winter rabbits out the window). There's a sequel to this. About 3 years ago Bob went shopping for a pickup to use for hunting, camping, etc. He bought one, brought it home, and hollered 'come see!" A light green, 1946 Chevrolet pickup. I took a startled look at its grill, the windshield that opened outward, the floor shift and the big floor starter button up to the right of the gas pedal, then climbed in. Bob innocently asked "Think you can drive it?" And I burst into almost tearful laughter (the poor man probably wondered what he'd done wrong!) and finally sputtered out, "Honey, I learned in it!"

All sorts of big and little memories, unconnected chronologically:

The fun you had with the new record player, mirroring my own delight at "I'm My Own Grampa" and Spike Jones' "All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth."
The jokes at Christmas, particularly Uncle Arthur's multi-wrapped boxes which finally unwrapped down to a walnut filled with Carter's Little Liver pills.
"Pull a pig's tail and he says unh-huh"'--and now I'm saying that to Marie's 'huh?'
My chuckles as you, with unerring accuracy, splattered a cat's mouth with a stream of milk clear across the barn. And the splashing, butting struggles of weaning a calf to a bucket.
The baby skunk with eyes still closed that you put with the new litter of barn kittens--and Jean's squeamish surprise when she realized what it was.
The night Shep barked "snake!" and you found the big bull snake hanging nearly at eye level over the chicken house door.
The big, beautiful, orange and white goldfish in the cattle tank.
The fun of watching for rabbits when the haystacks were broken up and loaded.
The truck rides to the 'far' pasture to feed the cattle, and my apprehension of 'Old Horny.'
Carrying skinned, gutted rabbits in to the house for you and watching them jump in the sink--just like you said they would.
The hog-butchering when you tried to give me an eye and I wouldn't take it.
The delicious yet scarifying smell of the poison mash--for grasshoppers?
The taste of water out of a tin cup at the windmill.
How grown-up and important I felt when you took me to the cattle sales.
The 'big flood' of '43. I'd hoped it would keep me at the farm, but we drove thru what must have been over a foot of water across the highway back to Dodge.
The scolding you gave Dwight when he frightened me with a snake during the post-hole digging.
The early pre-dawn sound of you shoveling coal into the furnace--and the times I got sent back to bed 'til the house warmed up.
Turning the ice-cream freezer; and licking the butter-churn paddles.

I remember the squishy feeling when you put my hand print in the porch step cement. (Four years ago I satisfied the Sitton's curiosity as to where that print came from).
I remember being utterly terrified at seeing you in the hospital when you got cement poisoning.
I remember you coming for me, standing there in my 3rd grade classroom, when grandmother died.
I remember you teaching me to find the North Star, and the Big and Little Dippers, and answering my never-ending stream of questions. (I also remember believing a rabbit could be caught by putting salt on its tail)
I remember my first trip out-of-state--to Bethany with you for the graduation.
I remember 'keep quiet now' when you listened to the farm market reports on the old radio. (They still sound like Greek to me)
I remember the old crank wall telephone, and the general ring for frost warnings and such.
I remember--with unspeakable nostalgia--SNOW. Snowdrifts, three feet of snow in the driveway, snowmen, the big sleigh, delicious forehead-splitting cold, blizzards . . . I haven't seen over an inch of snow in 10 years!
I remember the sound of your voice leading the evening prayers.
I remember. I remember so many things. You, more than anything or anyone else, were responsible for my continuing bump of curiosity and my childhood sense of wonder. And I wish there were still a farm, and that my not-quite-four Marie could be "Tag-Along-Too Lou" with you, making memories. . . .

What do you remember best? I'm still asking questions . . . please, to satisfy my curiosity, and for little Colleen's baby book--who picked the name 'Colleen', how, and from where?

I remember the distaff side of things, too; the sewing, cooking, the garden--but that's another letter.

Much love,
Sara Jean

NOTE: Sara Jean RILEY is the niece of Elmer KARNS. At the time of his death in 1977 she rewrote this letter in essay form. She was librarian for the Ventura, California Star-Free Press at that time. The essay was printed by the Dodge City Daily Globe and by The Bucklin Banner. Sara's preface to the article in The Bucklin Banner follows.

Elmer Karns was far more than "uncle" to me--he was the only "father" I know. My own father, Eugene C. Riley, died Christmas of 1938 in a disastrous house fire at his mother's home in Kinsley, Kansas. Where do I fit in? Mrs. Elmer Karns (Verna) is my mother's sister. My mother, Elta J. Riley, was clerk of the district court in Dodge City from 1940 to 1967. Unless it's been sold again since 1972, the "old home place" referred to is the farm now owned by the Sittons northeast of the Ford bridge across the Arkansas river. It was the original Dawson farm started by Isom Martin Dawson in about 1904. Elmer and Verna Karns rebuilt every building on the place in the early 1940s, and it stayed in the family continuously for nearly 60 years.

A POEM WRITTEN BY ELMER KARNS FOR HIS NIECE, SARA JEAN RILEY

The newest things down on the farm
Are two new calves around the barn;
A dozen kittens are in the hay,
All are yellow if they're not grey.
Plums all picked and corn all gone
Peaches are green and still hanging on.
Long wet harvest wasn't funny,
Lots of work and not much money.
Uncle