The Dilly Ranch

The back of the old house was once a spot, where my dad and I fed cattle during the winter. Dad had the theory, that after using it for three or four years, the thick stand of sage brush would eventually begin to disappear.

It worked.

The storm that hit during the 80's bringing large mounds of rocks down the canyon near the spring helped too.

At one time, there were a small bunch of rocks, which was a section marker. During my life, dad showed me several sites where they existed, just like his dad did before him. From my earliest memory, knowing I would someday have to know those things by heart was important.

Plans change, just like the effects of time on this old farmhouse, where I grew up during the summer.

It's been so long since I saw some of the parts of this house, that I've almost forgotten the rooms, but I remember the old pink chair.

One leg, as I remember, was missing, so we leaned it against a wall. No one sat in it anyway. There must have been some sentimental connection with that chair, but no one ever said anything about it, so I really have no idea about it.

The green paint was the wall of that back bedroom. The door led to the back yard, but for years, nails prevented anyone from opening it. Either antique hunters or who knows what forced their way through it. There was nothing in the house worth taking.

However, the square-headed nails were more than interesting. They basically held the old part of the house together, a section that existed long before my family arrived in the mid 20's.

One of dad's discarded shoes lie in the corner. I don't recognize the other one, but I figure it was most likely an old pair of mom's.

The cabinet in the center of the photograph had spices in the drawer at the left. The right top drawer was for knives and forks. A bottom drawer, as I remember, was a bread drawer.


Two larger doors were on the left side. Pots and a few pans were below it.

A lone window at the left was one we opened at night to get a cool breeze going through the house.

The two large front windows were where the kitchen table once stood. I will always remember eating breakfast and watching kitchens play in the front yard.

At the left is the back of a large wooden stove.

Dad always wanted to remove it, but it was extremely heavy. Someone slid it away from the center house. If thieves did it, I'm sure they found it was heavier than they figured. I helped lift one of those stoves once, and it took four strong men to lift it, and it wasn't an easy job.

Whoever moved the stove did it just in time to save it from any damage from the chimney falling through the ceiling to the floor of the old kitchen.

Outside is interesting as well. a section of what once was cabinetry from the old cellar lies in the yard.

Old fruit jars still contain things my grandmother did in the 40's and early 50's.

I remember finding a jar of raspberry jam. It was my favorite type, and I opened it and began making sandwiches.

That was during the mid 60's, so the bottle was at least 15-20 years old.

A layer of wax was at the top of the jar, which wives once used to seal fruit jars. The jam tasted great. My parents were upset when they determined I had found an old bottle in the cellar, but they did let me use it--especially since I didn't get sick.

The funny thing about that is that I once had an experience in Germany, where a family gave us old bottles of jam. The smell of fermentation was so strong in the jam, that we had to toss it into the trash.

Grandma Liza's jam, though very old, didn't have that problem.

At one time, the outdoor plumbing was an issue for me. I was ashamed of the fact that we had an outhouse in the backyard.

It doesn't bother me now. To be completely honest, it actually shows an important philosophy. Our farm was highly productive, because all the money went first into machinery and farming supplies and sheds. My grandpa and my dad saw to it that we had what we needed to produce exceptional crops, so the outhouse isn't really an issue.

It was once in the front yard. Dad moved it into the back, after digging a deep hole.

It was a "twin-seater" like most of them were. I have a difficult time understanding why you wanted conversation in times that required such seclusion.

I can't bring myself to think I could ever be that lonely.

It is my hope that one of the pathetic wretches, who keep stealing things from the farm, will one day choose to sit it it.

Given the condition, they will definitely find themselves dropping into a mass of karma.

It's a dream of mine, but justice never happens like that. People never get what they really deserve.

For me, it's sad to see the place look like this. Grandma Liza planted trees around the house, and some already existed. It provided shade during the summer, but without water, the large trees eventually died, and winds brought them down into the yard.

The picture below shows the back door. That was what we called the entrance. We were always on the lookout for anyone dropping in for a visit, because the shower was in that entrance. It was mostly a safe situation, because you only took a shower like that late at night, so it wasn't a problem.

There was only a screen door on the outside of the entrance. When no one was there, we usually propped something against it, to prevent the door from breaking from wind gusts slamming it back and forth. On the inside, there was a large wooden door near the kitchen sink, which locked from the inside.

In front of the house was an old chicken coop my grandfather built.

He designed it well. The door above not only provided some storage, but there were also a number of old batteries.

At one time, a wind mill was in the front yard. It generated some power, but my dad always said how unreliable it was.

Technology has come a long way.

There was also a way of dumping grain or feed for chickens at the top.

I never had any experience of raising chickens, so the whole thing about mash and how to feed them is something I really don't know. Grandpa had a couple of problems.

First, he built a chicken run. The neighbor's pig somehow was able to get through the wire a number of times. After fair warning, grandpa took a club and hit the hog over the head. The animal dropped to its side. I think grandpa though it meant some hams and sausage for the neighbors, if they came and retrieved the damn thing, but suddenly, the pig became conscious and ran through the run and tore everything apart.

A second event involved a coyote. Grandpa heard the chickens making a horrible commotion. He ran with the .25/20 rifle, and after cornering the animal, he shot it.

The old chicken coop eventually became a spot to store some machinery. The John Deere Deep Furrow Drills were once there. Then we began storing sacks of seed wheat on planks between barrels. Only the barrels remain. The planks like scattered about on the floor.

I have so many memories of this old house. It was here, where I lived in the years before my mission in Germany. Dad bought the ranch north of us with a better house in the fall, after I was at the university. Dad had me meet with him with the lawyers.

That land was to become my ranch. Plans change. It's what happens in life. It's like John Lennon once said: "Life is what happens, after you've made plans."

Regardless what happened, I have incredible memories. When I was in high school, the roof began to leak. Dad bought tar and round rolls of tarpaper and large rolls of a type of roofing. It looked like shingles, but it unrolled. We spent an afternoon replacing that roof.

I think my dad's picture happened near the back door of the house. It had to be when he was six or seven, so that would have been in the late 30's or 40's.

The house is a memory now.

It's what we learned in that house and on that farm that is so important.