Down Home

When Esther Malay married Vincent O'Neil, they started their new life just down the road from the Malay farm in rural Caledonia, Minnesota. The Malay farm went back several generations, and that particular valley was "down home." Vincent died when his two children were quite young. The widow took her two children, Robert and Margaret O'Neil to live with her father, mother, two unmarried sisters, and an unmarried bother. The place burned down once, but was rebuilt - an exact duplicate of the original. Grandma Malay died in her bed in that home.

After Word War II, Robert O'Neil brought his war bride and new son with him to this same remote country valley, and they lived at Uncle Willy's just up the road from the Malay farm. After they got more established, they moved into a place of their own, but it still wasn't very far away - in Hokah, Minnesota. There was a great deal of turmoil in the Robert O'Neil family, and a great many moves took place over the next few years. In the middle of it all, however, the O'Neil family still rejoined Esther quite often, and especially at Christmas. In fact, a large number of relatives went "down home," to the Malay farm for Christmas. It was the accepted thing to do. There were presents for everyone, much laughter, singing, talent displays, and much love. We went there at many other times of the year as well.

I remember the farm for many things; the wonderful hayloft in the huge barn, the mysterious holes in the floor of the hayloft where we tossed hay to the milk cows below, the chicken coop, the time I stuck a coin to the roof of my mouth, the outhouse with the Sears catalogs for toilet paper, the chamber pots under the beds, the oil lamps filled with kerosene, the water pump on top of the well outside, the cistern where we collected rain waiter for washing our hair, the milk shed where the milk was brought and dumped into a separator, the shed where the tractors were kept, going up on the side of the hills to cut trees and collect wood, the basement where the stove took up all the room, the washing machine that straddled the stairs to the basement, the absolutely fabulous storage area under the porch where I spent many hours in "my fort," the huge china cabinet that faced both the kitchen and the dining room, the drawer in the china cabinet on the kitchen side that kept all the special treasures in the world and which had this fantastic leathery smell to it, the attic with all kinds of rifles and old phones - and - a very special teddy bear I thought was mine, feeding the pigs, killing a pig, finding several different kinds of sand in the river bed and layering them inside a glass jar, the times the river flowed high with water and we had to drive carefully through it to even get to the house, the smells from Uncle Robert's pipe, the time Pappa Malay made a whirling spinner for me out of a metal can and a stick, the days Momma Malay spent dying in her closed off room, the crank phone we had to yell in to be heard, and the time my mother and I walked the hills alone together. We were frightful of rattlesnakes, but were undisturbed. I was shocked at the miles my mother put on as the two of us wandered about.

Funny thing, what I don't remember is any clocks down home. It is as if we had escaped to another place, where time didn't matter.

Whenever I stayed there, I was given the largest of the four upstairs bedrooms to myself. It had the largest bed. I never did stop to think - at the time - where Grandma was sleeping while I took her bed!

Waking up "down home" was an absolute delight! There was no electricity or running water, but there was a wonderful wood cooking stove in the kitchen. Every morning it was the same old routine - oatmeal and home made bread toasted in the oven. Grandma put butter on the bread before she toasted it, and the smells. . . .well, they were heavenly! Mary Malay was the official cook, and there was always an endless succession of pies, cookies, and other goodies on the kitchen table. My Grandma did the sewing. Margaret must have been in charge of sending money to the missionaries. Every night, we kneeled down to say the rosary. Each of us had our own bow-backed, green painted chair to hold us up as we prayed for - what seemed like forever! An adult would take turns leading, and every night the rosary was accompanied by a specific theme. I have a rosary from my mother that outlines those themes.

My mother tired of all the moving we did across North Dakota, and finally settled down in what we thought would be our last house in about 1964. It was at 217 South 16th Street in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. I didn't know it at the time, but it surely was a throw-back to the rectory at Borley! It was just a few miles from the Malay farm. In a pinch, we could have walked between the two.

Mom had divorced Dad while we were living in North Dakota, but he stayed with us almost permanently from 1963 on, so he took up one of the bedrooms upstairs. Mom stayed in the library. When he wasn't getting drunk, Dad sat in the bay window of the living room, watching the traffic.

My own little family was at a church meeting in Rochester, Minnesota when I received a phone call saying I needed to return to LaCrosse as soon as possible, my Dad was dying. He had been mean during my early years, and I really hated him as I grew up. I hated my mother for not only putting up with his violence and with his wild spending, but for giving him money to keep on keeping on.

As we drove to LaCrosse, I flashed back on the time I was driving to Logan, Utah to attend college. As I drove over a mountain ridge, a revelation flashed through my mind as strongly as if an angel had been sitting in the car with me. "He IS your father," the message said. After that, I had a different point of view about my Dad. He could no longer whip me, so violence was no longer a problem, but now I ignored his verbal abuse and actually tried to form a relationship with him. Yes, I have since discovered that he was not my real father, but that does not negate the revelation - he WAS my father for all intents and purposes. During his last years, we spent a lot of time together, just hanging out. We played pool at his favorite bar. I would have 7-Up with peanuts. He would have a beer with a cheroot. There was a time after we learned he had cancer that he actually stayed in our home in Holmen, Wisconsin! As his health deteriorated, however, he ended up in a hospice attached to St. Francis Hospital. My mother was so grateful for these few rooms set-aside for the dying. Not only could the patient die in dignified surroundings, relatives could also find succor from the staff.

It was November 6, 1981 as we headed back to LaCrosse. Mom was already there as I got to his bedside, and so was his sister. I was concentrating on my Dad and my Mom, so I can't swear to it, but I think some other relatives were there as well. Dad would die with family around him. A nurse indicated he was breathing his last, so I rushed out into the hall to bring his sister into the room (others may have thought I was running away?). In those few precious seconds, he left. I reached his bedside and shouted at his spirit, "I love you, Dad!"

I was absolutely shocked at the number of people that showed up for his funeral in Caledonia! We had family I didn't even know about. The church was full. The reception hall was full. Everyone had forgotten about the hell he had put them through, and he came "down home" one last time. He was buried in the same cemetery where many of his relatives rested.

When my great-aunt Mary died, she left $5000 to my Dad. He wasn't alive, so I got the money. There was talk about me becoming involved, but I didn't have any enthusiasm for farming, and there was a cousin who had been helping out for several years. The house became part of a larger property owned by the cousin. Since there were no direct descendants left after Mary died, eventually the furnishings from the Malay farm went on the auction block. It was one of the saddest days of my life. I left before things ever got started.

"Down home" was gone.