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| Beatrice, Nebraska |
About two hours north of Manhattan across the border into Nebraska is a pleasant little town called Beatrice. Judy's (Karen, Arlene, and Jane's, too) mom hails from there. We came here today to visit cousin Dale Linsenmeyer and Aunt Alice (A very spry 94). Dale treated us to lunch at the Beatrice Country Club's restaurant called Classic. Anyone can eat there, even non-member, non-Nebraska football fans. Lunch was delightful. Dale regaled us with stories. He's about eight years older than Judy, so he has a more secured memory of their childhood years. Judy and her sisters used to visit from Hutchinson on holidays, some summers, and other random occasions growing up. After lunch, Dale took us on the back roads with the ease of a man who's lived in the area his whole life. We looked at houses where uncles, grandparents, and other relatives either live or have lived. We looked at a few spots that no longer house the original building. For example, Judy said she thought she smelled dirty diapers when we passed the ground that the filling station her father first worked in Beatrice (Judy, the oldest spent her first sixth months living here). We also went over to where Aunt Alice lives (By herself). She was tickled to welcome guests. And since we mentioned our interest into 1880s architecture, both Dale (In Beatrice) and Rodney (On the way up in Waterville) showed us a few fine examples. Dale also took us out to the National Homestead Monument. The Homestead Act, signed into law in 1863, advanced the spread of immigrants westward. The first ever homestead was established in Nebraska. The monument is very well done, includes an informative film that is sensitive to both the Native Americans (Although they may hear it as the bitter words of broken promise) who were exiled by the European invasion and to the bravery of those Europeans, who themselves were trying for a chance to build an American Dream. As living proof of a promise kept in terms of the American dream, I'm once again conflicted as to the inequities of the past, those of the present, and sadly, those of the future. Most frustrating of all is that I have little means of affecting any change even if I knew what change would be best. In the meantime, I simply try to live the best I can much like (I suppose) most people. As for now, Judy and I are snuggled into site #12 in the quite large and attractive Chautauqua City Park. After we said good bye to Rodney and Karen and Dale, Judy and I walked the grounds (Partly, they're immense). If we had more time we would break out the tandem tomorrow and explore the area more fully, but as for that, we're now on a self imposed schedule to be home by the twentieth. This means we're beating feet out of here early. Tomorrow, we are making a nearly three hundred mile (Our preferred maximum) run to the middle of Nebraska to a little town called North Platte. Hopefully, we'll once again be granted traveling mercies, but then again that's tomorrow. Since I don't believe anyone is promised tomorrow, all I can say is life is good, especially today.
The view from Rodney and Karen's breakfast table.
Starting tomorrow, we'll leave this luxurious spread and return to our normal thin gruel.
Good bye photo of the sisters.
One of the cool houses in Waterville, Kansas.
It's neighbor (There are about six on this street).
Rodney, Aunt Alice, Dale, Karen, and Judy in Dale's living room.
The sisters and Aunt Alice yucking it up at lunch.
Nebraska is beef country. I had a pretty good French Dip sandwich (Beef raised, processed, and prepared by the owners of the restaurant).
Hot Rod of the Day (Rodney almost bought it to drive it to K-State games. Go Cats!).
Dale was invaluable here. He knew where the parents, grandparents, and great grandparents (And others) headstones were.
This is the headstone of great grandfather Wiebe.
The cousins contemplating their grand parents.
The grandparents.
Aunt and Uncle.
It's no easy chore looking for a Wiebe relative in this cemetery; about a third are named Wiebe, but they're not necessarily related.
A replica of the original homestead. It's not much bigger than twelve by twelve with a sleeping loft.
A table in one corner.
A bed in another next to a small stove.
A rocking chair next to the steep stairs (more like a ladder).
Art shot of the day.
There was a pedal sewing machine under this window. Life was tough. Less than half the registered homesteads made it.
Every state had homesteaders. One neat feature of the monument is a visual cutout of the territory homesteaded in each state. Look at Nevada (4th from left). Not many took a chance on the desert.
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