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My dear friends, Dixie and Jack Leslie — former residents of Fallon who now live in Kansas close to their son Jim, his wife Becky and their two children — have lost two of their other sons and a granddaughter.
I cannot imagine that kind of grief. We aren’t supposed to outlive our children or grandchildren, are we?
Dixie and I have not always agreed on many subjects; but when she and I worked together at the local telephone company — we were the two red-headed cashiers both of whom had five sons — Dixie and Jack were the first people to take my son Doug and me into their home and into their lives when we moved here.
It is difficult, if you are a resident who has lived here all of your life, to understand what it is like to be a “kind of stranger” in a new place. People are kind, say hello — would I’m certain —be there in an emergency; but don’t often invite new people into their homes. At times, it can get mighty lonesome. It’s lucky that my son Doug and I are independent people who can enjoy our own company.
But Christmas dinners, birthdays, and the other celebrations that we partook of with the “Leslie Clan” made our lives in Churchill County a lot more enjoyable.
Then the Leslie’s — one by one, or two by two — moved away and Doug and I were again alone without that feeling of being part of an extended family, one that had nothing to do with a blood connection.
But life goes on.
I thought about this when I heard that Dixie and Jack had lost their second son, and I cried like an idiot. All of us need to remember the true special friends we have, not just those within our own families with mates, children, mothers, fathers, and siblings; but even those we don’t keep in touch with except to exchange Christmas greetings. There are people that I have not even seen in over 20 years, but I know that they think about me and I about them. There is always that shadowy connection of past good times when my husband Van was still alive.
Cascade and Lowman Idaho are both small towns, especially Lowman. There, in the winter months the road was closed just past town and you couldn’t get to Stanley. The road to Boise was kept open; but nobody traveled that way unless they really had to — it wasn’t an easy ninety-mile trip. However, we all got together — those brave souls who stayed in Lowman all winter — on Thursday nights at the Sourdough Lodge, which was otherwise closed. Thirty or 40 of us would bring assorted goodies for a potluck dinner and then — with a dozen tables set up around the fireplace — play cards into the wee, wee hours of the morning.
There was always snow in Lowman in the winter, and on those special Thursdays I would always hope that a little would be falling to set the stage for yet another wonderful night. People who lived farther came in their cars, pick-ups or snowmobiles, but they got there regardless of the weather.
How Van and I looked forward to those wonderful nights, even enjoying the cold, snowy walk from our home to the lodge — with Van holding my mitten covered hands.
Then there were those memorable weekends when Van and I lived in Cascade. We often had company or went to someone’s house for cards, usually by snowmobile. We also kept busy on some other weeknights attending meetings for Eastern Star, church functions, the American Legion or other associations. There was always something to do, and we were seldom alone.
While I keep in touch with many of my friends from both locations, a lot of them have unfortunately gone —along with my Van — to a better place. I’m sometimes asked why I don’t drive up and visit, but I can’t.
I just can’t.
The memory of what I no longer have would be too painful for me. So instead, I prefer to live with the memories of all those wonderful times and dear friends. Sometimes, it’s these very hidden joys we have that make our lives most worthwhile.
For me, they are enough. Recognize them in your own lives, and savor them while you can.
Edna Van Lueven is a Churchill County resident.
I cannot imagine that kind of grief. We aren’t supposed to outlive our children or grandchildren, are we?
Dixie and I have not always agreed on many subjects; but when she and I worked together at the local telephone company — we were the two red-headed cashiers both of whom had five sons — Dixie and Jack were the first people to take my son Doug and me into their home and into their lives when we moved here.
It is difficult, if you are a resident who has lived here all of your life, to understand what it is like to be a “kind of stranger” in a new place. People are kind, say hello — would I’m certain —be there in an emergency; but don’t often invite new people into their homes. At times, it can get mighty lonesome. It’s lucky that my son Doug and I are independent people who can enjoy our own company.
But Christmas dinners, birthdays, and the other celebrations that we partook of with the “Leslie Clan” made our lives in Churchill County a lot more enjoyable.
Then the Leslie’s — one by one, or two by two — moved away and Doug and I were again alone without that feeling of being part of an extended family, one that had nothing to do with a blood connection.
But life goes on.
I thought about this when I heard that Dixie and Jack had lost their second son, and I cried like an idiot. All of us need to remember the true special friends we have, not just those within our own families with mates, children, mothers, fathers, and siblings; but even those we don’t keep in touch with except to exchange Christmas greetings. There are people that I have not even seen in over 20 years, but I know that they think about me and I about them. There is always that shadowy connection of past good times when my husband Van was still alive.
Cascade and Lowman Idaho are both small towns, especially Lowman. There, in the winter months the road was closed just past town and you couldn’t get to Stanley. The road to Boise was kept open; but nobody traveled that way unless they really had to — it wasn’t an easy ninety-mile trip. However, we all got together — those brave souls who stayed in Lowman all winter — on Thursday nights at the Sourdough Lodge, which was otherwise closed. Thirty or 40 of us would bring assorted goodies for a potluck dinner and then — with a dozen tables set up around the fireplace — play cards into the wee, wee hours of the morning.
There was always snow in Lowman in the winter, and on those special Thursdays I would always hope that a little would be falling to set the stage for yet another wonderful night. People who lived farther came in their cars, pick-ups or snowmobiles, but they got there regardless of the weather.
How Van and I looked forward to those wonderful nights, even enjoying the cold, snowy walk from our home to the lodge — with Van holding my mitten covered hands.
Then there were those memorable weekends when Van and I lived in Cascade. We often had company or went to someone’s house for cards, usually by snowmobile. We also kept busy on some other weeknights attending meetings for Eastern Star, church functions, the American Legion or other associations. There was always something to do, and we were seldom alone.
While I keep in touch with many of my friends from both locations, a lot of them have unfortunately gone —along with my Van — to a better place. I’m sometimes asked why I don’t drive up and visit, but I can’t.
I just can’t.
The memory of what I no longer have would be too painful for me. So instead, I prefer to live with the memories of all those wonderful times and dear friends. Sometimes, it’s these very hidden joys we have that make our lives most worthwhile.
For me, they are enough. Recognize them in your own lives, and savor them while you can.
Edna Van Lueven is a Churchill County resident.
