By his daughter, Josephine Kerns Murphy

The photograph I have of him as a young man reminds me of a good-looking young Englishman, not of the stocky John Bull type, however.  His eldest son, John, was a throwback to that type.  His appearance was more romantic, with large, keen, wide-set eyes, definite eyebrows, almost bushy.  He had a fine forehead and nose and a handsome head of wavy hair.  His mouth betrayed a readiness at rebuttal.  He was of the type seen among English actors, poets, writers, and lawyers.

When I was a junior, the folks rented a house in Sheridan.  There were five of us in school, Jack (James Fredrick) being the youngest.  Now Dad could ride or drive the fourteen miles to Parkman, then take the train for the remaining forty six miles into Sheridan and thus visit his family occasionally.  On one of these visits he saw three boys all tearing madly down the street.  It was a chase.  Dad's heart sank with shame because the sight caused him to remember a quaint boy custom he had hoped had become passé.  The two boys in the lead raced past our house.  The pursuing boy hesitated, dropped the brick he was carrying and stalked into our house.  Dad was elated with pride.  He would have pinned a medal for bravery on his third son if he had had one.  Jack was the family runt at that time, but nobody chased him home from school.  "I was chased home from school every night" my dad confided to me.  "Town kids always ganged up on country kids when they moved to town.  I was a puny kid, and I've never gotten over those daily humiliations.  But my boys—they're different."  Indeed they were!  In Macon, Missouri, John in the fourth grade, had a fight every night as a matter of course.  He loved it.  Bert was big with an easy-going good humor, but a glint in his eye, so he seemed to lack the opportunity.  Tom did O.K. as far as I know, and even took boxing in high school and college.  He must have stood the test.

I think the first time Lora Cooley met Jim Kerns was at some young folks' church doin's.  There all alone, sat that nice looking young man, not mixing in a bit.  So this young lady who certainly never lacked for beaux, out of the goodness of her heart went over and tried to draw the odd young man out.  His reply to her kind words so surprised her that she nearly fell off her chair.  She had never encountered such wit.  Others came to learn what was so funny, and soon they were the center of attention, with everybody in stitches.

Dad was like that.  The very thought of having to go to a party terrified him.  Mamma had to be firm.  Next day we heard all about it.  Dad had become the lion of the party, and months or even years later I might hear from a neighbor something "Jim said."

Some people started chuckling the moment they saw him, but the people he most enjoyed making roll in the aisles were Indians.  He yelled at them because he mistook their slowness in our language for deafness.  Gradually their Indian dignity broke down.  Talk about belly-laugh!  Silent belly laugh.  How painful it must have been.  They gave him the Crow name of "kudctha," "Laugh Much."

Jim, or "Jimmy," as some fondly called him, was an ambitious young man.  Though he did not know where he was going, he was on his way.  His first stop was Chicago where he aimed to become a newspaper reporter, which he did, but was fired for reasons unknown (to me).  Then in turn, he washed dishes for a living, picked turkeys and became a butler.  "Yes, I buttled," said Father when a snobbish young man was having dinner at our house one night.  Up until then, Dad's account of his wild youth had been very amusing to our guest.  But when Mr. Kerns confessed he had "buttled" J. Huntington Smith, blushed, stammered, fidgeted in his chair as though abruptly to leave the table, but decided to see the evening out, for after all he was "just slumming."

Some time in there Jim became a school teacher—much to the regret of his yet unborn progeny.  Why are people so vain about their least accomplishments, yet take their great talents and virtues as matter of factly as the air they breathe?  Never was there a worse, more impatient teacher.  One night, John at the age of six was put barefoot out into the snow until he recalled how to spell "That."  And Dad was determined to make a mathematical whiz of me!  I, of all people, who could only add by cheating, that is, counting on my fingers under the table.  And poor Bert, for fourteen slow dragging miles into Parkman that poor dumb brother of mine struggled against tears to overcome his mental block which prevented him learning to spell the four letter word "Love."

But in fairness I must admit that on college level he was superb!  I loved hearing him talk on civics, politics, money and banking, that is, when I was much older.  He could have been a college professor, but NEVER a first grade teacher!

During their courtship Jim was brushing up on his shorthand.  Though usually he sang in the church choir because he had a fine tenor voice and a true ear, now he often sat beside Lora scratching his knee throughout the sermon.  "What kind of knee disease does he have that he has to scratch in church?" asked a disapproving dowager.  "He's taking down the sermon," explained Lora.  "He doesn't want to miss a word.  He does it in shorthand."  "Well, that's more like church goin' people ought to be," said the lady, "not just sit there and scratch."

Aunt Rose adored Jim who had always shown her the most courteous attention.  Her faithful attendance at church was chiefly to hear him sing in the choir.  And when she visited his home he and sister Lily took turns either chording and accompanying their duet on the piano or his guitar.  After Lora and Jim were married, Aunt Rose visited them now and then in their new home.  She had become quite deaf, alas, but there were times when she forgot her handicap.  "Jim," she said, "Do sing me one of them good old hymns.  How I long to hear your voice again singing in the choir."  So Jim sat down at the piano, played some magnificent, stirring chords and sang her a hymn.  This is it:

"There were two crows sat on a tree,

They looked as sorrowful as could be.

One old crow said to his mate

It's been a year since we have ate.

But over here on yonder hill

An old horse died and lies there still.

We'll fly to him when day is done

And pick his eyes out—one-by-one.

Yes—we'll pick his eyes out—one-by-one."

Jim finished, hands dropping limply at the keys, head drooping sadly.  There was quiet save for the stifled sounds coming from Lora's apron where she had buried her head.  Poor girl.  Simply overcome.  "Jim," said Aunt Rose, "Thank you very kindly.  Your singin' always does this old heart good."

Jim's father, Adam Kerns died at 54 of pneumonia.  Jim was executor of the estate.  His mother, Martha, was very frail with tuberculosis.  Her doctor insisted she go to California where it seems there was a Johnson estate that had been homesteaded for gold.  Jim sent her there, but she became so homesick she wrote and continued to write pitiful letters, begging to be allowed to return to Osceola.  But the doctor warned that there was slim chance of her surviving the high altitude at Donner Pass.  Mamma said my dad walked the floor all one night making his decision.  He arranged her transportation and Martha died coming over Donner Pass, as the doctor had feared she would.

When the Spanish American War broke out, Jim felt it his duty to offer his services to his country.  Lora was pregnant for the second time—(me) and resented very much that he should consider leaving her alone with two children.  "Running off to war" was not much different from infidelity and abandonment, in her eyes.  Perhaps her feelings account for the strange child she had, who bawled all the time.  But I'm not the only one.  Other women have told me of their mothers' resistance and resentment to that war.  Fortunately, it was a short one.

My first personal memory of my father was on a cold December day, my fourth birthday, although he seems to have played a minor role to the rats.  A wooden box had arrived Adams Express.  John had been ordered to fetch a tack hammer from the house.  "Come out and see" he called as he hurried on his errand, "It's a present for you."  I was not interested as I did not want a tricycle.  The little beasts refused to go for me.  My father was excited and impatient with John, scolding the cheerful boy.  I felt sorry for John.  Then he started squealing:  "Oh little rats!  Jo, come out and see the little rats!!”  So I braved the chill and there stood my brother stroking a furpiece (muskrat) around his neck.  He placed it around my neck and showed me the little rats with glass eyes and stiff ears and beautiful hanging tails.  Then he put his hands in the muff and showed me the rat on it with its tiny white teeth.  Then he ordered me to put my hands in the muff, but I was reluctant because the rats in there might bite me.  There was luxury and relief when my paddies finally and safely met snugly inside.  My mother did not appear on the scene.  This is her account of the incident: "So I dressed her up next day and she was taken down town.  Do you know, she was so stuck up she wouldn't even speak to her own FATHER?!!"  I heard this story many times and supposed it to be one of the cute things I had done.  Then I became conscious of her voice which contained a note of contempt and bitterness and I became aware too that the glance she threw my way was not kind.

But it's pieced out now.  Her parents had lost their first child, a daughter, tragically.  After two or three boys, Lora came along.  She was the apple of her father's eye.  He bought her lavish gifts for those times.  She was used to being Number One.  I was a "threat" to her.  Or so it has been explained to me by a psychologist.  I know now my father should have bought a fine fur set for my mother, and as for me, any little old toy would have sufficed.  So take heed.

My father becomes little more than background on our ranch in Wyoming.  I recall a cold winter night when I felt miserable.  (I was coming down with my second bout with scarlet fever, this time called "scarletina").  Everybody was comfortable but me.  John lay with his dog for a pillow.  Bert was "partaking of refreshments" as he patted his mother's white breasts.  Kate, cozy and cuddled on Uncle Bill's lap would have pinched and kicked had I tried to crawl up too.  I looked at my father who was reading.  No one had ever sat on his lap.  I knew better than to try that.

As I recall it, Tom was the only baby who sat on Dad's lap.  It was because he was a miserable little twin with eczema.  His eczema was caused by the sweet Eagle Brand milk they were fed.  His body could not take care of such an excess of sugar.  At first Dad was awkward and ill at ease with a baby on his lap.  But he came to like it.  Tom, not being his first son was not the most important.  But there grew to be a bond between them.  I think he was the most beloved and dearest son.

During those early ranch years, every summer was occasion for a fishing picnic or two.  This was before the days of special equipment.  A pocket knife cut down the willow pole.  There was line and a few hooks, grasshoppers in Bull Durham sacks and fishworms in tin tobacco cans.  The catch was proudly displayed on a forked willow branch.  Dad and Bill went their separate ways as there was a friendly rivalry between them.  Dad "made tracks" covering restless miles.  No catching suckers for him.  If he did not get a strike as soon as he skimmed his hook over the water, he was off.  He gained fame as an expert fisherman.  I don't know when or why those picnics ceased.  I missed them.  Once in Hardin where mother was living with Bill and Peg, she watched me enviously as I mowed the lawn, then burst out, "I wish I had energy like that."  I am wondering if those picnics ceased because youthful energy played out, became exhausted.

Ranch life should be one of constant rejuvenation.  A man should awaken each morning feeling fit and fightin' and especially so, in these modern times with machines to do the heavy work.  A man had to do heavy work in my father's day.  Dad got the "piles," hemorrhoids in medical terms.  It was bleeding piles, he had.  He walked leaning forward, with pain etched on his face.  Horseback riding became agony.  He had never ridden with the natural ease and grace of his sons.  Rigid, arms a kimbo, reins too tight he bounced up and down, irritating his horse and himself.  His tenseness gave way to explosions of anger.  Sometimes he beat and jerked his horse, and the man I knew as a child whose chief cuss word was "Con bean it" sounded off blasphemy that caused me to stop my ears.

One day I noticed the nodules on his arms.  They were moveable.  I asked him about them and he explained this was nature's way of sealing off tuberculosis germs.  As I counted those nodules I marveled at the work his body had been required to do all his life.

He had been obliged to quit his midwife duties to calving cows and heifers.  "Too much danger of blood poisoning, reaching in," Mamma explained to me.  "But Jim delivered the four I had in Wyoming.  He was good or better than any doctor.  Of course Doc Taggart always got out eventually, to verify the deal and give his blessing."

Dad had a depraved appetite for salt.  The word "depraved" should be changed to "Deprived."  My theory is that when one is deprived of a needed nutrient, the body grasps for a substitute, any thing to still that craving.  But his daughters wondered if he emptied the salt cellars so often just to keep us busy.  His hair lost its luster, became harsh, dry and unkempt-looking.  His step dragged.  His jokes were no longer funny, but slightly disgusting.  There was a faint slur in his speech.

When I visited the folks in Eugene, one day I came on Dad furtively feasting on a bag of oranges.  Caught in the act he was, though I did my best to relieve his sense of guilt.  Then I looked into the Past.  Oranges were for Christmas!  One big orange in the toe of each child's sock.  One big fragrant orange, for children only.  Not for dads.  Yet what a bang Dad got out of Christmas!  The live puppy in Jack's stocking!  Good for months of chuckles.  And .22 shells hid all over the house for Tom to discover!  At this late day in my life, I ask:  "What did Dad get?"—Nothin' I can remember.

Those years on an isolated Wyoming ranch took their toll of our parents.  How hungry Dad always was for intellectual companionship and stimulation!  How our mother yearned for the jolly approval of "others!"  They became very noisy, which I found annoying and distasteful.  Now I realize their noisiness served a purpose as it helped fill a great emptiness.  I remember the time Mamma had to go help a neighbor woman.  Dad paced the house and the porch anxiously awaiting her return.  How childishly dependent he had become on her very presence!

But resentment was beginning to show on my mother's face.  Why couldn't she have things better.  Even I felt critical that the folks always bought second-hand furniture.  Why didn't Jim raise wheat in Eastern Oregon like Mr. So and So?  Then she could have things like her friend, his wife, Mrs. So and So.  Her face became set in a mold of discontent.  She wished Jim would at least go out and hoe the garden.  He did go but did not stay long.  I saw his face as he leaned his hoe against the house.  Never have I seen a face so sad!  What was wrong?  He used to enjoy hoeing the garden in Wyoming with his mate.  Then was the quiet time of their "togetherness," their church-going time.

On that day when my dad leaned his hoe against the house I forgave him.  I forgave him the licking he had inflicted on me when I was ten.  I forgave him for beating the milk cow, and his good old horse Spot, and for becoming a senile slouch.

He died of a bad heart at the young age of 64.  Their doctor assured our mother that his heart had been overtaxed as a child.  Mamma said that when Jim closed his eyes at last with a sigh, he had said:  "This is good."

I shall never forget your cousin Jill's desire to tell the world when your Uncle Bert passed away:  "Don't you know a great man has died?!!"  Your grandfather who had been "a puny kid" passed away, one of the "greats" among the common herd.