The end of the story
My father and mother, Andrew and Lois Layman, moved from a gorgeous 3500 square foot Dilby Tudor in Kansas City, Missouri to a ten-acre farm in Johnson County, Kansas. The place had some major barns and chicken houses and a lovely redo house. They came there with me and my older brother, their second family. Their first family, my sibs, were married and off on their own. We arrived when I was in second grade. Dad commuted 25 miles to his office (the plant) in KC.
Dad, aka Chief Layman, was with Bendix for 30 years. He was active in Lions Club, a 32nd Degree Mason, involved in Toastmasters, Managers Club, an elder in Country Club Christian Church in Kansas City, along with endless other farm and community related activities such as sharing pastures with neighbors, labor and old tricks he had learned as a boy. Our neighbors respected him because of his know how and that he wasn't another one of "those gentlemen farmers."
I think my love for the outdoors came from my tagging along with him on those outings to the neighbors to pick up livestock or go to the wheat fields to take in grain. My dad also taught me how to shoot, although guns were not a big deal in our house. We had a 22-caliber rifle that was kept over the back door transom on the porch and that was it. I think a broom would have been more efficient--and quicker.
My love of sports came from my time with Dad. We'd go to KU basketball games together, enjoyed pro and college football and shared together the general love of sports. That carried on till the day he died. I could always count on my dad to talk about sports with me.
Living in the country was an adjustment for me. I was afraid in the middle of the night. The casualness of my folks' attitude toward security stunned me. Yes, they sort of locked the back door in summer with one of those things that looks like a question mark that hangs on a loop; however, the door was a screen door. I realized later it was Russians my dad was after, not Clutter murderers. I suppose he was confident he could handle anything that came along, or that the odds were such that nothing would happen.
I did have so many advantages, such as owning a horse and living a wonderful existence in a beautiful woodland with hills and valleys. The Native American past of the area provided plenty of arrowheads and artifacts for kids to dig for and hunt. Exploration was a large part of my early life.
After my brother went to college, I became an only child for five years. That was not a bad thing. My folks kept up the chase and taxi service during that time--not an easy thing for parents who had an active kid late in life. How many cheerleading practices and games, how many newspaper meetings?
Then, thankfully for everyone concerned, I went off to college.
Mother and Daddy were alone, for the first time in how many years. Daddy retired and they kept up their "normal" routine, although I'm sure the adjustment was enormous for my mother. They bickered about moving to the desert in Arizona for the winters, about moving to town, about this and that. Meanwhile, they were visiting their children who were scattered about the country, enjoying themselves. I wish I could say that after so many years in retirement they figured it out. Regretfully, that Air Stream simply wasn't in the cards. Not in this lifetime.
It was almost summer, a hot and humid, mid-afternoon. Dad was mowing a neighbor's field--a flat place between a marble quarry and a hedge row where I used to ride my horse, Billy--about two miles away from the farm. It seems he had lain down under a tree, the tractor gearbox in park with the mower blades still spinning, his straw, panama-style hat on his chest, and his hands were clasped, fingers intertwined across his midsection as if resting, or maybe praying. There, under a silvery leafed sugar maple, he died.
One of our dear neighbor's teenaged sons found him.
The date was June 15th, 1978. The following Sunday was Father's Day.
My greatest fear had come true. He was gone.
Thanks for the read.
My father and mother, Andrew and Lois Layman, moved from a gorgeous 3500 square foot Dilby Tudor in Kansas City, Missouri to a ten-acre farm in Johnson County, Kansas. The place had some major barns and chicken houses and a lovely redo house. They came there with me and my older brother, their second family. Their first family, my sibs, were married and off on their own. We arrived when I was in second grade. Dad commuted 25 miles to his office (the plant) in KC.
Dad, aka Chief Layman, was with Bendix for 30 years. He was active in Lions Club, a 32nd Degree Mason, involved in Toastmasters, Managers Club, an elder in Country Club Christian Church in Kansas City, along with endless other farm and community related activities such as sharing pastures with neighbors, labor and old tricks he had learned as a boy. Our neighbors respected him because of his know how and that he wasn't another one of "those gentlemen farmers."
I think my love for the outdoors came from my tagging along with him on those outings to the neighbors to pick up livestock or go to the wheat fields to take in grain. My dad also taught me how to shoot, although guns were not a big deal in our house. We had a 22-caliber rifle that was kept over the back door transom on the porch and that was it. I think a broom would have been more efficient--and quicker.
My love of sports came from my time with Dad. We'd go to KU basketball games together, enjoyed pro and college football and shared together the general love of sports. That carried on till the day he died. I could always count on my dad to talk about sports with me.
Living in the country was an adjustment for me. I was afraid in the middle of the night. The casualness of my folks' attitude toward security stunned me. Yes, they sort of locked the back door in summer with one of those things that looks like a question mark that hangs on a loop; however, the door was a screen door. I realized later it was Russians my dad was after, not Clutter murderers. I suppose he was confident he could handle anything that came along, or that the odds were such that nothing would happen.
I did have so many advantages, such as owning a horse and living a wonderful existence in a beautiful woodland with hills and valleys. The Native American past of the area provided plenty of arrowheads and artifacts for kids to dig for and hunt. Exploration was a large part of my early life.
After my brother went to college, I became an only child for five years. That was not a bad thing. My folks kept up the chase and taxi service during that time--not an easy thing for parents who had an active kid late in life. How many cheerleading practices and games, how many newspaper meetings?
Then, thankfully for everyone concerned, I went off to college.
Mother and Daddy were alone, for the first time in how many years. Daddy retired and they kept up their "normal" routine, although I'm sure the adjustment was enormous for my mother. They bickered about moving to the desert in Arizona for the winters, about moving to town, about this and that. Meanwhile, they were visiting their children who were scattered about the country, enjoying themselves. I wish I could say that after so many years in retirement they figured it out. Regretfully, that Air Stream simply wasn't in the cards. Not in this lifetime.
It was almost summer, a hot and humid, mid-afternoon. Dad was mowing a neighbor's field--a flat place between a marble quarry and a hedge row where I used to ride my horse, Billy--about two miles away from the farm. It seems he had lain down under a tree, the tractor gearbox in park with the mower blades still spinning, his straw, panama-style hat on his chest, and his hands were clasped, fingers intertwined across his midsection as if resting, or maybe praying. There, under a silvery leafed sugar maple, he died.
One of our dear neighbor's teenaged sons found him.
The date was June 15th, 1978. The following Sunday was Father's Day.
My greatest fear had come true. He was gone.
Thanks for the read.
No comments:
Post a Comment