To Ora from Katherine

I love my Aunt Katherine--- I would dare say we are kindred spirits.  I appreciate her sharing her memories of my grandfather with me. She knew him in his cowboy days and even though she wasn't his daughter (she is on my Weaver line) she respected him as such.

Her writing is tender, descriptive and poetic.  She is a memory keeper!

Family History tip--- Memories of your grandparents are found everywhere.  Do some investigating- you would be surprised who might be keeping a memory!

Memories of Ora Hofheins:

It was very hot the day when I met him.  He was out on the century old farm doing as his father had done before him, passionately working the land, caring for the animals, sculpturing the good earth and looking respectfully at the sky which God had so generously provided for him.  As he walked towards me without stretched arms, I was immediately engulfed and enchanted with his wonderful captivating eyes and equally charming smile beaming from under a sweat dampened cowboy hat.  His walk spoke of timeless hours in the saddle.  He gave me a broad as the sky above welcome to his wonderful world, nestled quietly in the past. He had a great since of humor and I was immediately put at ease. I felt as if I was special to him, a friend and that he had known forever. I knew I was in company of a man of integrity, a man of a genuine testimony of life and he had a bright refreshing goodness which mirrored his cowboy life.  He was simple in his talk, and his laughter was spontaneous when telling a clean joke and having fun, like when he Indian wrestled with you.  This was to be the beginning of a truly wonderful relationship that very few men in my life have held, my father, my brothers, my husband and my sons. Honestly, he was special, unique and to know him was to wish you could be in his company often. I felt his engaging warmth as my eyes met his and he put his arm around me.  This act of kindness was to lead me into his world which still has a great hold on me even to this day.

 As we left the field, the animals stopped eating and lifted their heads to pay homage to his labor in their behalf.  I saw satisfaction in his eyes as we road to his home in the old family pickup.

I had past in our family car, many times his world in Beaver Utah.  It was an in between pleasant spot, on an otherwise dreary state road. It was an oasis in the desert of endless heat from somewhere. It was a pit stop, a stop to get a drink, or a stop to rest for a brief while, and to stretch our legs for the next four hundred miles ahead of us to Logan, Utah.  On our return trip, we stopped in Beaver to get gas before reaching our destination of Cedar City and home.  This was all I knew about Ora, until Kimball married Janet.  Kimball then had family in Beaver and so did we.

 The town of Beaver had a only one stop light in the early 1960’s, a main street with a “Due Drop Inn” Café where Janet had worked as a waitress. She definitely was her father’s daughter as she had inherited from him that wonderful trait of friendliness and sense of humor felt by all. There was a mercantile store and a gas station which was the center hub of the town’s life.  All the men stopped to chat for awhile, to get gas, to pass the time of day before going to the field and then stopping again after the day’s work.  There was a baseball field on main street, which drew the folks of this old fashion little town to fun during the long hot summer days. The high school was also on Main Street, and buzzing with activity from September to May.  Most who lived in Beaver had walked its hall to graduation.  Then if folks stayed, they went to work the fields, or ran a dairy and milked the cows twice a day to sell the milk to the milk factory in the community. The factory stood boldly as the only industry and produced year in and year out the wonderful cheese and pasteurized milk that was taken to the city grocery store to sell.  There was a grocery store also that helped to fill the pantry in the family home when the garden was empty and one had a sweet tooth.  The town was self sustaining but once a year its families went to the big city for the things to sustain their home life.  The Church building was the center of social activity and its children were nurtured in the arms of the Lord.

Beaver was nestled in a valley of green and neighbored by areas of semi arid desert. The beautiful mountains which surrounded it were dressed in the winter by the whiteness of snow. The snow melted in the early spring and formed tiny brooklets in the fingers of canyons and ravines. The water flowed into the river on its way to the valley floor.  Life was rich with rain in its season and hay was stacked in barns waiting for the snow to come again.  But when the clouds did not form, the drought came knocking at the door leaving man, and plant, and animal at its mercy.  The farmer and the rancher’s success were measured by this act of nature and faith in deity.

Beaver’s residence were apart of legacy of the century just ended. Its people were naïve to the traveler and the world of the present. The sixties with its rebellious youth had spawned an uncertainty by casting a shadow for change in the values of the past and tradition, in the form of equal rights, and all out abandonment of the religion of their parents in the name of free love. Beaver folks lived on as they had always lived, close to the earth and close to the maker of us all.  The valley, a picture of the old west, held a book mark in time, a slice of life in a bye gone era, when things were much simpler, not rushed, and where families flourished to homage above.

Of course, there was a rodeo and the stadium to enjoy the skill of every true cowboy and his horse or you might say where a good horse and the cowboy reigned supreme To me Ora’s world was a step back into a day when a word and a handshake was your honor, and a man’s name carried integrity and character. Where the divine was given a place of honor at a man’s table, and where children were a blessing and the future of the family and nation.

Lucille, his wonderful wife, and Ora opened wide their hearts and home to our family before my brother Kimball became Janet’s husband.  Truly, there are few homes that I have entered that had the warmth and radiance as this white framed house.  I have wondered since that first day long ago, when I first met Ora what made that home so inviting to me? What was its charm? I know now, with age and experience in life, that it was an era filled with love of family and love and reverence to God.  It reminded me of the home of my father’s childhood. He like so many others, left the farm to build the future of the fast pace wasteful world we now live in, where some people look at success as position, knowledge and money not home, family and country. To have wealth is to acquire its thirsty frenzy, and in the getting, one may just forget their roots and their nearness to the soil and family. 

The smell of freshly a baked pie, and the love that went with each bite was amazing that day long ago, as I entered into that wonderful period of time in my life.  I had come home to my first remembrance of my own heritage, the old farm house, to the grandmother of my childhood, and to the smells of the farm in Layton Utah and away from the hustle and bustle of urban squall.  The food was good and nourishing to the soul.  We were fed most graciously from the table and from the hearts of Ora and Lucille Hofheins and as their hearth and door were always open to us on the winding weary road of life.  Thank you, dear Ora and Lucille for the good times. Thank you for helping me to see what is really important.  I love you. And I think of you often as I do my own parents…Katherine Genee Weaver Walker