by Bobbi Phelps
Once we moved away from the protection of the hay stack and into the blizzard, my car began to shake. Heavy gusts battered its side. I gripped the steering wheel and plowed ahead, the dirt road frozen into ruts as hard as granite. Once again, I could see nothing in front of me, not even the car I had hoped to follow. It had been swallowed up by the storm. I was on my own. It was like driving through a thick fog, so dense I felt a white carpet had been thrown over me. Thank goodness, the tops of the telephone poles could still be seen.
With a sigh of relief, I finally recognized the exit road to our part of the ranch. Before I made the turn, I stopped and shifted into first. No way did I want to slide into a roadside ditch. Once I headed east, the wind came from the back of my car and blew the Subaru forward. I shifted to second and then to third. Finally, I made it home and into our garage.
“Where have you been? I was worried,” Mike said as he stepped from the kitchen into the garage. “And who was following you?”
“Following me? I have no idea. I couldn’t see anything.”
Just then the telephone rang. Mike picked up the receiver and heard that Kay and Bill Nebeker had ordered one of their workmen to follow me. They wanted to be sure I had made it home safely. I never noticed anyone behind me. The blinding snow had been too strong. The Nebekers must have been the young couple in the car that had stopped alongside the haystack. I told Mike of my adventure from Twin Falls and all the trucks and cars on the sides of the roads. I also mentioned, “I’ve never heard the words ‘ground blizzard’ before.”
“Now you know,” he said. “It’s an unusually strong wind that picks up the ground snow and blows it sideways. Often it isn’t even snowing. Just blowing.”
“Because we have so many trees in New England, the snow never gets a chance to blow across the ground,” I explained. “Storms are definitely different here.”
“I’m glad you’re home. Safe and sound,” Mike replied as he helped me bring in the groceries. “So, what’s for dinner?”
Because of the ground blizzard, most businesses had shut down early that day, as had all Magic Valley schools. Right after lunch, Murtaugh bus drivers transported the school children home. A driver left the two Moss children, our neighbors, in front of their residence and drove away. He didn’t know Marsha and Dean had locked the house while they were shopping in Salt Lake City. The children had no keys, and there were no houses within walking distance—especially during a blizzard.
While the snow continued to lash across the farm land, Candyce realized she couldn’t get inside her home. She convinced her brother to join her inside their dog house. The kids huddled with the wolf-huskie mix dog and stayed warm with only a little discomfort as they waited for their parents to come home. From then on, Marsha hid a key outside the house. In case of an emergency, her children could open a door to get inside.
Chapter Eleven
Pregnancy and Birth
“Your breasts seem bigger,” Mike whispered as he caressed me under our bed covers. When he pulled me closer, I contemplated his statement.
“What the hell does that mean?” I thought.
I had been nauseated a few weeks earlier and had left the Times News promptly to drive back to the ranch. I thought I had the flu. Many employees had called in sick as the virus had enveloped Magic Valley, forcing several schools and businesses to close.
Years before, I had married a college sweetheart. We were open to having a child but after ten years of trying, we never did. Consequently, I thought I never could.
At noon, I walked from the Times News to Main Street and down three blocks, past the Bank and Trust building and Hudson Shoes to Crowley Pharmacy. I bought a pregnancy test. The result showed that I actually could be pregnant. But, the brochure stated, the results were only ninety percent accurate.
“I must be one of the ten percent. There’s no way I’m pregnant. My gosh, I’m forty,” I reasoned. Mike and I had discussed children before we married. He already had a son and a daughter. He concluded two children were enough.
“Not to worry,” I told him. “I can’t get pregnant.”
After an appointment with my gynecologist, Dr. Miller, he said, “yes,” I was indeed pregnant.
“How can that be?” I asked.
“It’s the same as when a couple can’t get pregnant, and consequently, they adopt a child,” he explained. “Then the woman finally relaxes and she becomes pregnant.”
I worried I was too old, and besides working at the local newspaper, I owned the Angler’s Calendar Company. Did I have time to raise a child and work two jobs? Mike and I debated the future and decided a child would be fine. We’d adjust. Once my belly became enlarged, he became unusually protective. He hovered over me, attentive and restrictive. No longer could I snow ski, no longer could I carry suitcases when we traveled, and no longer could I lift heavy calendar boxes.
Yet, I could become extra weight on a tractor blade. Mike wanted a patio extending from the living room French doors and chose to smooth the dirt by himself. He drove a tractor from the ranch headquarters and attached fifty-pound weights to a scraping blade.
“Why don’t you get on? You’ll add another hundred pounds at least,” he said. “I’ll have this area smoothed in no time.”
I mounted the blade and held on tight like a bird on a branch. If my parents could only see me now: seven months pregnant in a flowing red dress, standing on a blade behind the tractor. I held onto the back of the tractor seat as Mike propelled the machine around the yard. Before long the patio area was level, and Mike relieved me of my chore. Melvin and Mario arrived with wood planks to enclose the space and poured cement into the center for our future patio.
A few Saturdays later, we heard the whump, whump, whump of helicopter blades while arranging items in our three-vehicle shed. In the sky, Jack and Elaine Wright, owners of Kimberly Nursery, flew over our house. They looked like they were riding in a green dragonfly, turning left and right, as they surveyed our property. They landed in the field behind our house and stayed to pick out shrubs, trees, and irrigation sites for our landscaping project. Growing up in a New York suburb, I thought their arrival by helicopter seemed straight out of a scene from the television show Dallas. While they talked figures and locations, I left to make Mike’s lunch: two tuna-fish sandwiches, a handful of potato chips, three glasses of milk, and five Oreo cookies. He never varied his meals; consequently, it was easy for me to shop and prepare. Before long I heard the helicopter leaving and Mike coming in through the garage door. His lunch waited for him on the kitchen table.
* * *
Eight and a half months after our marriage, I began to experience intense contractions. Merle Wolverton had died three weeks earlier and I initially thought my strong sensations were related to his recent funeral. I woke from a sound sleep with an odd sensation. My stomach felt upset, like I had eaten something bad. I went into the living room, dressed in my flannel nightgown, and lay on the couch, trying to relax. But I couldn’t. I wandered back to the bedroom, holding my extended belly in my hands.
“Mike. I think I’m in labor,” I said.
“No way. You’ve got another two weeks to go,” he said. “It’s just false labor. Come back to bed.”
I crawled into bed but felt too uncomfortable to stay. Again, I departed for the living room. Struggling to ease the pains, I curled into a fetal position. Finally, I shifted to the floor and got on my hands and knees, assuming the yoga ‘downward dog’ position. I extended my butt in the air and my forearms on the floor, stretched out straight. I made it through the rest of the night, but as the sun peaked over the foothills, my contractions became harder and closer together. I called Dr. Miller.
“You live too far away. You better come in now,” he instructed.
“Now?” I questioned. “But my due date isn’t for another two weeks.”
He snorted at my ignorance and informed me due dates are just suggested dates, not facts. I reiterated the news to Mike. He again
asserted I was in false labor. An hour later and wracked with pain, I declared, “No more waiting! We have to leave now!”
Mike brushed his teeth, threw on some clothes, and helped me into his pickup, frowning and shaking his head with displeasure. He was obviously aware of birthing cattle, had two children from a previous marriage, and therefore dismissed my concern. He knew I was in false labor.
On our way to the hospital, we diverted to the Times News. A salesman came to Mike’s truck and retrieved the ads from my open window. Whenever I experienced another contraction, I stopped explaining the material. The men stared at me, waiting for me to continue. Another spasm struck my body and a tiny form shifted inside me. I finished talking and told my co-worker I’d see him in a week or so. Little did I know this would be my last day at the newspaper. Raising a child turned out to be much more time consuming than I had ever imagined.
From there we drove to the hospital. Once at the front entrance, an attendant placed me in a wheelchair and rolled me into a sequestered room and helped me undress. She held my arm while I stepped onto a stool and turned to sit on a disposable paper sheet that covered the birthing table. Next, she placed my feet into metal stirrups, and a nurse arrived to examine my cervix.
“You’re dilated to three. You’re on your way!” she said as she gave my arm a cheerful pat and smiled at me.
On the labor table in a small cubicle, I found myself surrounded by fishermen: Dr. Miller; Dr. Lambert, a pediatrician; and Mike. While I lay covered with a cloth on the table, they discussed salmon and trout. Whenever I cried out in agony, all three stopped talking and waited until the “noise” had passed. Then they began their stories again. Because the hospital was under repair, the only thing separating me from strangers and family members was a thick curtain. These groups sat about thirty feet from me while I gasped for air, trying not to scream for fear the people on the other side of the heavy drape would hear me. I never expected such terrific pain and I shouted and cried during the last hour of labor.
“He’s coming,” Dr. Miller said. “I can see the top of his head. Bare down, Bobbi.”
Sweat ran off my forehead as I tried to comply. My wet body soaked the paper sheets and I squeezed Mike’s hand as I pushed. At 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, May 5, my son was born. So much for false labor. At the foot of the bed, Dr. Miller held the tiny form. Because Mike and I were completely unprepared, we had no name picked out, no baby supplies, and my mother’s flight from Florida was not to arrive for another ten days.
A nurse cleaned the infant and placed his nude body on my stomach. I looked him over and saw he had all his fingers and toes and a shock of black hair. “So, that’s what a newborn looks like,” I said. She then wrapped him in a soft blanket and handed the bundle to Mike. He cradled the tiny infant in his large hands and left the room to show his family, waiting on the other side of the curtain. An attendant wheeled me upstairs and I immediately fell asleep. Mike arrived later with a green plant and a colorful bouquet of flowers—not only for the infant—but to wish me an early happy Mother’s Day. I was now a mother. Who would have thought?
The following day, the three of us drove to Kimberly, visiting relatives and having dinner. Before long, I was drained. We drove east on Highway 30 until we hit 4900. From there it took only ten minutes to arrive at our home, and I could finally go to bed.
“Mike. Something’s wrong,” I said standing in the bedroom a few minutes later. “The baby doesn’t seem right.”
“What’d you mean? How would you know?” he answered while already under the bed covers. “You’ve never had a baby before.”
“I don’t know. But he just doesn’t seem right. He seems exhausted,” I said as I sat on the bed beside Mike.
“Of course, he does. He’s had a busy day,” Mike countered and turned over to go to sleep. I didn’t move but continued to sit next to him, staring at his blanket-covered body.
“Shit! Okay. We’ll take him back,” he grumbled as he whipped off the covers and climbed out of bed.
After putting on my coat, I grabbed the diaper bag and swooped the baby from his crib. Mike waited for us in the pickup. Uncomfortable silence filled the truck during our hour return to the hospital. We entered the emergency entrance and a doctor took us into a small examining area. A nurse drew the infant’s blood and stated the numbers to the doctor. They were excessive.
“Much higher and he could have had brain damage,” the doctor told us. “He’s very lucky you noticed his sluggishness. We’ll keep him for a few days and put him under bilirubin lights. His numbers will come down, and he’ll be safe to take home.”
We were told that they would place the baby under special lights to combat infant jaundice. My instinct as a mother, even a brand-new mother, was correct. Three days later Mike and I brought our little bundle home from the hospital.
“Put him in sunlight for about fifteen minutes each day,” Dr. Lambert instructed. “That will keep his numbers low and you won’t have to worry about bringing him back to the hospital.”
After we arrived home, I placed the nude infant on a white towel beneath our bedroom window. Direct sunlight covered him as he slept. Fifteen minutes later, I picked him up and laid him in my family’s heirloom crib.
As the bedroom windows caught the morning sunlight the following day, I again positioned our baby on a towel in the bright glare of the sun before climbing the front stairs to my office. How peaceful he looked, I thought as I saw him lying in the golden rays shining through the windows. Being a career woman for most of my life, I immediately forgot about the child. Forty-five minutes later, I remembered my baby was still in the sun. I raced down the stairs to our bedroom. There on the floor lay a bright red blob—as red as a hot chili pepper and as motionless as could be.
My gosh! Did I kill him? I thought.
I carefully picked him up and rushed to the bathroom and filled the sink with cold water. He didn’t move and I was scared to death. What have I done?
Once the sink was full, I plunged him into the chilly water. A piercing scream emitted from his little body. Yes! He was alive. He was probably unhappy, but he was definitely alive. Gently wrapping him in a towel, I held him close. Cradling him against my chest, I whispered that I loved him dearly. He would just have to have patience with me. I carried the tiny baby to the kitchen and called Mike on the ranch radio. “Mike, can you come home? Clear.”
Because our radio transmitted to other ranches, no private conversations were had. I didn’t want anyone to know what I had done. Understanding the many radio connections, Mike answered with a brief response.
“I’ll be right there. Clear.”
Although nothing terrible had happened, Mike calmed me and looked at his tiny boy. “I don’t know why things seem to happen around you,” Mike said as he wrapped his arm over my shoulder and pulled me closer. “But they do.”
“Next time I’ll set a timer. I won’t forget him again,” I promised Mike as we left the sleeping infant in his crib and walked to the kitchen.
Chapter Twelve
Angler’s Calendar Company
I created the Angler’s Calendar Company in 1975, four years before meeting Mike. My first Idaho employees, Diana Breeding and Karen Brown, came by word of mouth. But I needed more help. As I drove north on 4900 one day, I saw a woman mowing her lawn beside the road. I stopped the car and walked over to introduce myself.
“Hi. I’m Bobbi Wolverton. I live a few miles south of here,” I said.
“I’m Cathy Humphries,” she said as she bent over and wiped sweat from her face with the tail of her shirt.
“I just moved here and own a small business,” I said. “Would you like to make some extra money and work for me?”
“What would I have to do?”
“Answer the phone, call retail stores, and package orders,” I answered.
“How much do you pay?”
“I pay minimum but I give a pretty good bonus at the end of the year,” I said. “And you
can take time off for children’s school or doctor’s appointments.”
“When would you need me?” she asked.
“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Cathy said. And she was. And she continued to work at the Angler’s office for the next twelve years. All because of our chance encounter while she mowed her lawn the day I happened to drive by.
The Angler’s office was situated over the garage of our home with its own entrance and staircase. There were four desks with typewriters; a graphic light table for designing; file cabinets; and a free-standing, professional copy machine. The bloodline of the company was the telephone. With sixteen hundred stores that had to be contacted annually, employees were on the telephone almost all year long. However, the local telephone company allowed each family or business only one telephone line, which was also a party line. We were connected to three other families. Murtaugh numbers were only four digits; ours were 6611. Except for phoning Murtaugh, all telephone calls were billed as long-distance calls. Once school let out and students arrived home, we lost all communication. We telephoned nonstop during school hours and then completed paperwork the rest of the afternoon.
Sharon Kimber, who first started cleaning my house, was later hired to handle incoming supplies and outgoing orders. Eventually, she became the shipping manager. On many days, the complete staff contributed to packaging and shipping. It was too much for one person to handle. On one sales-breaking day, we sent over a hundred boxes and completely filled the UPS truck. To work from home was a true blessing, and my business soared thanks to my competent staff.
Chapter Thirteen
Failing Brakes
“Want to ride with me?” Mike asked over the radio. “I have to drive to Kimberly. Clear.”
“Sure, I’d love to. When will you be here? Clear,” I answered.
“Five minutes, clear.”
He drove a ranch truck with a large, tightly packed trailer filled with red- and white-dotted beans, and pulled into our circular driveway. I bundled Matt, our four-month-old infant, into a flannel blanket and placed him on the floor of the truck. Wearing jeans and a short-sleeve shirt, I grabbed the handle near the front window and hoisted myself into the cab. Once I cradled Matt on my lap, we began the journey.
