Middle Child

I had the good fortune to be raised in a family of seven children with a stay at home mom, family meals together, and all those “old fashioned family fixin’s”. We were raised as a Catholic Family, for which I am grateful. Children were always considered a gift from God, and we all were raised accepting what God gave us as the way it is and all a part of the plan.

At the risk of messing up dates, I will attempt to order the seven of us – Charles was born in 1954, the eldest son, named after Grandpa Carl Jarding. Cynthia came along a year later in 1955. I was born in 1957, named after dad, but with a different middle name, so I would not be called junior – I ended up being Jimmy to most of our family and relatives. Connie was born in 1958, John came along in 1959, Donna in 1961, and Bob was born in 1963. We also had a baby brother born after Bob, named Gerald, who lived only about 8 hours – he had what they called blue lung or some type of breathing disorder that he did not survive. I remember seeing him in a tiny Styrofoam box in the back seat of a funeral hearse at the cemetery right before we buried him. He looked like a little porcelain doll. He was our first saint in heaven who has been up there praying for our family all these years.

As I had written earlier, Connie had a very difficult delivery, and had Cerebral Palsy her entire life because of that delivery. I have often thought that but for the grace of God I could have been that breech delivery, or any one of us for that matter. Connie went home to heaven in 2005, after 47 years of life in a wheel chair, watching and loving all of us. She is our second saint in heaven. I know that she now prays for me and is watching over me. I look forward to being able to converse with her in that not too distant future.

There has been a lot of material written on birth order and how it affects the children in a family. The oldest children are always in charge and tell everyone what to do. The middle children are the peace keepers and survivors, and the younger children are used to being taken care of.

I think we kind of follow that pattern in our family, at least from my perspective. My wife says I am more of the oldest child in telling people what to do. As my life has gone on, I have seen myself as one who tries to make sure everyone is treated fairly and that we get things done. I have been in a supervisory position most of my working career, so I am used to telling people what to do and trying to get things done. I have no qualms about trying to take charge of almost every situation – I guess that is in my upbringing. I tried to weigh both sides of an issue, and then do what had to be done to resolve the issue.

I had the privilege of growing up on a farm and then in a small town in South Dakota. Dad and mom rented a couple of different farms near Humboldt during my earliest years. I was just big enough to get into trouble (6 years old) and to help carry one half of a bushel basket of ground feed when Dad got his job as a Rural Mail Carrier and we moved into Humboldt. The few adventures I do remember on the farm were – catching baby pink mice and bringing them in to show mom – she screamed and we had to put them back (by the way, baby mice can’t swim very well in a mud puddle) We had to gather eggs and help with what chores we could do. Cynthia was my outside chore helper at that time. Charles was getting old enough to start to drive tractor and to help dad with the chores. We had been milking cattle then, raised pigs, chickens, and fed cattle for meat. I remember when we butchered meat, our neighbor, Jack Even, would come over and help out along with other friends and relatives. The animals would be shot, then cut in half and hung from a tractor loader to be further processed. Grandpa and grandmas came over as well. The animal was all used – meat, tongue, liver, heart, tail, blood sausage, and even the fat was rendered down to lard to be used for cooking. You still cannot beat the taste of the pork sausages we had back then.

I remember walking out through the pasture behind our farm south of Pumpkin Center to pick wild asparagus with Cynthia. Mom always had a big garden, and there was always a lot to do on a farm for a young boy. Mom made homemade bread most of the time, but if we were short a loaf of bread, we got to walk the half mile north on the gravel road up to Pumpkin Center to visit the little gas station store to pick up some bread. That was kind of a treat back then to get to go into the store and see all the candy and items now found in convenience stores.

It was good to be in the middle and it was a great childhood. Not too scarred from what I saw or from the punishments and corrections I received, and still able to discern right from wrong most of the time. I had to learn to share very early on, and we used all we had until it was all used up. There are not any antique toy tractors from our place, we drove the wheels off of them. A bicycle went through three kids at least, and hand-me down and stitched clothing was all in style. My mom even mended socks – can you imagine that today – nobody mends socks now. Mom sewed and patched a lot of our clothing as well. She has always been a gifted seamstress.

Thanks to you Mom and Dad, we all made it through those growing up years and survived still speaking to each other. I think we are closer as a family because of that upbringing, and we have our parents and the faith we have in God to thank for that basis.