Category Archives: Memories

In Rob’s words

February 10, 2020Bob, Family, Memoriessusanmanzke

I’ve shared the tributes from Rachel and Russell in my column. Today I’m working on a column with off-the-cuff stories from Rob and Rebecca. These will come out later this week in the newspapers.

Today, I have the written words of Rob about his dad. I want to share them here today. This is what Rob wrote, though he did go off-script at Bob’s memorial.

“My dad was a hardworking, compassionate, every-man farmer who had two priorities in his life. His family and his farm. And, as my mother often pointed out, they weren’t always in that order of importance for him. But, those two priorities were interdependent and intertwined. He worked tirelessly every single day of his life to provide for his family. When my siblings and I were still growing up and living at home, my dad worked two jobs to help put food on the table and keep the roof over our heads. The summers meant that Dad was working the night shift at the canning company. He’d leave for work at 6 pm, come home at 6 am (sometimes later if he fell asleep in his truck in the driveway), sleep until 10 am, work on the farm, and then head back to the canning company at 6. He worked so his family could live comfortably and happily on the farm on Gardner Road. That was my dad.

My dad was the ever-creative, self-taught engineer. The tools of his trade – tractors, trucks, plows, and other farm equipment – had frequently lived a long and productive life well before he purchased them. While I know he couldn’t have afforded to buy new, I also believe he thrived on the creative challenge of giving new life to old equipment. It was through dad’s example that I learned the values of ingenuity, grit, creative problem solving, and self-reliability. And, while I know absolutely nothing about the mechanical workings of a 1972 International Harvester, I do know how to face challenges in my life with the same level-headed determination as my dad.

“It would be a near impossibility to live your life as a farmer without possessing an unyielding sense of optimism. My dad was the epitome of optimism. Every spring, he took countless tiny seeds and planted them in the ground – knowing that much of the success or failure of the crop was out of his control. In the time between planting and harvest, my dad would manage his fields to give his livelihood the best chance to grow.

Together with my mother, my father the farmer raised his children with the same philosophy of patient optimism. Every day, he instilled in me and my siblings a strong work ethic, a passion for life, a steady disposition and eternal optimism. He planted those seeds within his children early in our lives, he tended to us throughout our childhood by living those ideals, and he waited (patiently) for us to reach our potential – knowing that much of our success or failure was out of his control. I for one think he and my mom did a darn good job with their crop of children.

“So, let us take the time this afternoon to celebrate my dad’s life and his accomplishments. Although we won’t have the opportunity to have new interactions and experiences with him, we have countless memories to cherish. But, more importantly, we help him live on through each of us. He lived his life true to his ideals – universal compassion, a steadfast commitment to his family, self-reliance, working hard for what you believe in, and eternal optimism. We all can take those ideas with us to honor him and keep him alive.”

I’m also sharing this photo of us with Rob when he got his Ph.D. A wonderful day Bob and I were so proud of our firstborn.

The gift of a laugh

January 29, 2020Bob, Memoriessusanmanzke

I felt a chill this afternoon. Before going onto the front porch to feed the barn cats, I grabbed one of Bob’s heavy shirts.

After feeding all those moochers, I got a laugh. I had missed a snap on the shirt and the front was cockeyed.

Bob had done this often. Many times during our life together I was telling him to fix his shirt.

Today, when I did the same thing, I couldn’t help but laugh and thank my husband for all those years of fixing his buttoning/snapping.

Chop suey

October 2, 2019food, Memoriessusanmanzke

Today I used my pressure cooker to tenderize beef bits to use in a batch of stirfry–in reality, it turned out to be chop suey.

I had vegetables from the freezer and some from the fridge. It’s the kind of meal that doesn’t take measuring. I just throw veggies into hot oil to get them cooking, add shredded beef, soy sauce, molasses, and ginger.

I hadn’t made this in quite a while. Bob had seconds.

The trouble was that partway through cooking I had the wish that I had a can of La Choy Chop Suey vegetables. That’s what we used when I was a kid.

I haven’t used this kind of canned vegetables in many years, but just thinking about a meal made by my dad gave me warm feelings.

I doubt if I’ll buy a can of La Choy, but if I do, I’ll make it the way Dad did.

The photo doesn’t do my chop suey justice. My meal was very good. I’m pretty sure, Dad would have approved.

A Chuck Paska Story

September 12, 2019Family, Memoriessusanmanzke

When I was a kid, my dad told my sister and me stories about his childhood. They were all funny. Here’s one we always laughed at. Dad was a much better teller than he was a writer, but I’m still happy to have a copy of this story written in his own hand. I actually adapted it in my book Chicken Charlie’s Year.

Charlie’s swing

My sister Bernice is only five years older than me, but when I was five and she was ten, that made a big difference.

My sister Bea was the best swing builder in the whole world, or so I thought once.

“Sure I’ll make you a swing, Charlie. But it’s raining out, so I’ll have to make it in the basement. I’ll get some stuff and tie it to the heavy wood beans. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Well about a half-hour later there was my swing, a bicycle tire and a kite string.

“See, Charlie, it’s a swing, only you can’t swing on it. Get it. It’s only to look at.”

“What good is a swing you can’t swing on?” I asked.

“Well, don’t swing on it.” She went upstairs then. You guessed it. I didn’t make one full swing and there I went on my behind across the basement floor. I ran holding my backside, hollering, “Ma! Ma! Ma!”

Looking back to 1980

September 11, 2019Columns, Family, Memoriessusanmanzke

I thought I’d go back in time to the year I began writing my weekly newspaper column. This column shows me as a harried mother of three young children. Hope you enjoy this memory.

September 4, 1980

He put on his jacket as he turned away from me. Heartlessly, he ignored the tears in my eyes as he went out without a backward glance.

Without pride, I followed a few steps behind him. He was leaving me today and there was nothing I could do to keep him by my side. Robby was going to kindergarten.

Many a day this past summer, as I pulled at my hair thinking of answers to his never-ending line of questions, I looked forward to this day. Someone else would now have a chance to try to answer his questions. I would have a breather, if only for a few hours a day. (No one told me that in a few years, the baby in my arms, Russell, would have even more questions.)

But now he is actually leaving and I’m not rejoicing as planned.

Robby is not like my impression of the usual first-timer. He is not clinging to his mother, crying as if he is being abandoned. No, he is raring to go. He’s grown up … too grown up. He doesn’t need me anymore!

Today, I again give him into the hands of strangers. A short time ago, the stranger was the dentist. That was for all of a half-hour with me fidgeting in the outer office. He survived that experience better than his overly nervous mother.

This time I won’t be in the next room. I’ll be miles away from my little boy.

I won’t be there even if he cried. I’m sure he won’t—that is, if he doesn’t trip over his own feet and fall down.

I won’t be near if a big kid picks on my innocent 5-year-old. He’ll just have to learn to stick up for himself. He has to grow up sometime. BUT IF ANY HOODLUM EVER DID TOUCH A HAIR ON HIS HEAD…

I also won’t be around when Robby accomplishes a learning feat. I’ll just have to wait until he runs through the front door, waving his paper proudly.

I watched him climb on the bus and I sniffle. “I’m alone…” There’s a tug on my arm. Becky looks sad, too.

I pat her head and say, “You’ll get to go to school when you’re five, Honey.”

“I know that. But Mommy, when will Baby Russell quit eating my coloring book? Will he get a bellyache if he eats a crayon? Can I help you clean up the kitchen floor? Russell made me spill my milk. Does the baby like milk on his head?…”

What am I thinking about? I’m not alone. It’s two long years before Becky marches off to kindergarten (730 days to go) and five years before Russell follows (1,825 days for him).

I don’t have time for tears. I have to hurry to get something done before Robby gets home. He’ll only be gone a few hours.

Susan Manzke

Writer, Speaker, All-Around Good Person