As I shared with you recently, Cynthia and I are expectant grandparents. The doctor in Omaha says my daughter’s baby boy Shaneyfelt is due January 26, 2022.
Having received such exciting news this past Memorial Day weekend has offered me the opportunity to reflect on the time I spent with my own grandparents. Last week I shared with you my memories of Grandpa Henry Horn. Today, it’s Grandma Horn’s turn.
Grandma Bertha (Engel) Horn, my grandfather’s bride for nearly 62 years (they were married in Friend, Nebraska, on March 14, 1929), was born in Friend, Nebraska, on May 30, 1906, to Jacob and Kathrine (Ross) Engel. Grandma’s mother died in 1924 when Bertha was 17.
Grandma quit high school (a decision she later regretted) to go to work cleaning houses, because she wanted to do her part to support her family. Grandma also worked for Russell Stover Candies in Lincoln, for a drug store making ice cream, and for Short Manufacturing sewing men’s underwear.
Grandma could work wonders with knitting needles and a few balls of yarn. Every Christmas Eve my three brothers and I were showered with new hats, as well as freshly knitted gloves, mittens, and crocheted afghans. Grandma also made each of us a quilt. She let me pick the quilt that I wanted and then pinned my name on it and told me it was something I was to someday share with my wife. It didn’t happen. While my quilt lasted nearly 25 years, it finally fell apart in 1992 — one year before I married Cynthia.
Grandma Horn died on December 23, 1990 at the age of 84. Grandma and Henry, whom she called “Hank,” are buried in the Wyuka Cemetery in the heart of Lincoln.
My dad’s mother spoiled me with candy, a mostly sunny disposition, and five dollars every birthday and Christmas. Grandma’s electric organ, which was a play-by-the-numbers model, provided me with many hours of musical pleasure during my pre-teen years.
My grandparents resided at 1052 Y Street in Lincoln. Their one- story wooden home was located two blocks north of Memorial Stadium.
In my pre-school days, I attended Sunday school at St. John’s Congregational Church located at 10th and Charleston, two blocks from Grandma’s. The church has since been demolished. My brothers and I would attend class and then walk to her house and Grandma would offer us each a piece of candy, which was the only candy we ate all week.
Like all Grandmothers, Bertha was an excellent cook. She often made me Belina, a thin German pancake that I would roll up and cover with syrup. I’d usually eat four or five of Grandma’s Belina, unless served prior to a Cornhusker football game. During my junior-high days, I would have lunch with Grandma and Grandpa before walking to Memorial Stadium. However, I’d get so excited about attending the game I usually could only consume one or two Belina. My pre-game appetite deficiency perplexed Grandma, but I assured her it was due to my Big Red zeal and not a lack of appreciation for her German pancakes. Here is the recipe for Grandma Horn’s Belina:
“One package of yeast mixed with one-quarter cup of water (a can of beer may be substituted for the yeast and one-quarter cup of water); four cups of flour; two beaten eggs; one-third cup of sugar; one teaspoon of salt; one teaspoon of baking powder. Mix the yeast (or can of beer), flour and water and let stand for four hours to make a sponge. Add remaining ingredients. If mixture is too thick, use warm milk to thin so it will pour easily. Heat and lightly grease a skillet. Pour in enough batter to cover entire bottom of skillet. This should be very thin! Fry until bubbles appear, and flip. Serve with syrup or jelly.”
Grandma Horn was a constant worrier. Even so, at any given opportunity, I would sneak away and dart across the Burlington Northern railroad tracks to pay a visit to an empty and gray Memorial Stadium. Visiting the hallowed grounds of Nebraska football was a real thrill for me, even though it was in the dead of winter, and the stadium matched the color of the snow-filled clouds. One cold winter’s day, I paid the price when Grandma couldn’t find me after I was missing in action for one hour. I disobeyed her direct order not to cross the tracks and hang around the stadium. While Grandma never laid a hand on me for disobeying her and going AWOL on an unauthorized stadium visit, I was the recipient of a classic tongue-lashing. And it had happened before. Grandma also gave me a royal butt chewing when I was about 10 years old and had attempted to walk 22 blocks from the Belmont swimming pool on North 12th Street to her house after swimming one hot afternoon. She lectured me about Lincoln being loaded with “hippies and other weirdoes” that wouldn’t think twice about harming children.
Grandma hated having her neighborhood referred to as “The Russian Bottoms.” The neighborhood had evolved from a Russian immigrant neighborhood to rental properties for numerous University of Nebraska students by the early 1970s, which prompted Grandma to refer to the area as “The Hippy-Dippy Bottoms.”
Grandma and Grandpa’s house no longer stands. Roughly six years ago, all the old wooden houses in the 1000 block of Y Street were destroyed to make room of a huge apartment complex to complex, many occupied by UNL students.
Because I am such a traditionalist, there have been several times that I have parked at this new residential unit on Y Street and walked to the University Campus and Downtown Lincoln as I did as both a high school student and UNL student in the 1970s.
Next week: my mother’s parents as I count down the days to becoming a grandpa.