Ivy Echoes
By Ginger Boerm Andrews
My mother, Lomagene Stewart Boerm, began writing the “Ivy Echoes” in the early 1940’s while she was in grade school. Her father, E.V. Stewart, encouraged her to do it and it was E.V. who actually came up with the name “Ivy Echoes”. After a short time, Mom grew tired of writing and E.V. took over. He wrote the “Ivy Echoes” up until his death in 1978. The next time the Ivy news was covered…it was Myrna Gephart taking up the pen and telephone… renaming the column “Ivy Covered”. As a tribute and to fulfill a promise to Myrna, whose funeral I attended today, I am picking up my pen to continue what Myrna wanted me to……writing the Ivy news.
Since this is my first article, I should tell you more about myself, but that can wait. Today, I want to tell you a story about a dear, dear man who was laid to rest this morning and who made a huge impression on my life. Like his father, Lee, LD Gephart, was born and raised near Yates crossing. LD was as much a part of this land as the red hills themselves…red hills that today are mourning the loss of this sweet, sweet person and the Gephart name. Gephart’s had been living in this community for over a hundred years.
At the funeral today, much was said about LD’s life and how he loved to grow black diamond watermelons, how he loved to hunt, trap and fish…how unselfish he was and what a good person he was. But no one mentioned his patience and sheer determination. That is the story I want to tell.
About ten years or so ago, when my boys were still in High school, we decided to make a quick run to Yates crossing to try out a little one man boat. It was getting late and when it was time to leave our truck got stuck in the gravel. The sun came down fast and before we knew it, it was pitch dark. Joey decided to save the day by running the 4 miles home. He made it to the house and came back and got us. Then it began to rain and rain hard. It rained hard all night long, with me wide awake, worrying that the river would come down. I waited up all night, until 6 a.m., a “decent” time, I thought, to call 911. They said simply “M’am, you need a wrecker! The river is coming down!”. Well to try to make a long story short… the river swallowed up the truck in 30 ft. of water. The little boat we were so proud of floated away, never to be seen again and the huge tool box full of tools was found sticking straight up out of the water near the old Beef Trail crossing on LD Gephart’s place. L.D volunteered on the hottest day of summer to help me retrieve it. It was about 3 ft. from the edge of the river in shallow water, but wedged in rocks and very bottom heavy, since all the tools shifted to one end and the whole thing was full of mud. Also, the river bank was a cliff that went straight up about 12 feet before leveling out. LD then told me that he would use his “Come-Along”. The look he had when he said it gave me all the confidence in the world. You could tell he loved that Come-Along and I soon learned that LD valued ALL of his tools way more than the average man but that didn’t necessarily mean, his tools were that great. This Come-Along was a faulty, broken, no good Come-Along from Hell. It was at least a hundred years old and the wire on it wasn’t nearly long enough, but that didn’t deter LD He stretched the line out as far as it would go…and then…it would come off the reel. He’d patiently re-thread it. Rough rusty cable wires would stick into his hands. He didn’t seem to mind. Then he’d find a piece of old chain to wire to the line to make it longer and when it was still too short he’d add a piece of baling wire he’d find laying on the ground. He then added a piece of old rope to the baling wire. He even got a piece of brittle BARBED wire, at which point I realized this man was nuts. You have to understand, I have no patience and he was ALL about patience. He got the line long enough finally to reach me and I tied the last section of his multi-sectioned line to the toolbox and then he would start cranking on the Come-Along. The line would break. He’d retie it. The line would come off the Come-Along. He’d sit and re-thread it. He’d crank some more and the line would break. You have to also understand it was hot, humid and sandy and I was in miserable shape. Not fun. He only smiled and kept at it. He reminded me of Ace Reid’s “Cowpokes”. LD didn’t have much, materially speaking. He sure didn’t have a decent Come-Along. What he did have was patience and a good heart. He had “calm”. It was like… he wasn’t worried in the least about a thing on earth. He had …well…I guess he had “faith”. Whatever it was, I didn’t know it at the time. All I knew was that he was attempting the impossible and I was hot and tired and my jeans were soaked, and sweat was literally dripping off my face and I was miserable. How was I going to get out of this mess? Well. I am not exaggerating when I say, that LD re-threaded that Come-Along a dozen times and re-tied the wire and strings at least 15 times before he was satisfied to hook the Come-Along to the end of his old beat up truck. As I am watching in disbelief, he puts the old truck in gear and guns it. As he lurches forward, the blasted toolbox leaps out of the river and is dragged to the top of the cliff. You can imagine, only if you knew L.D, the smile that popped out all over his face. Me? I was flabbergasted. Wow. What that man did, defied the law of what works and what doesn’t work. That was LD. It never dawned on him that what he was attempting was impossible. He didn’t have the latest tools or a fancy wench truck. He made “do” and just did it. Me…I worry too much.
God bless you Myrna and LD. We will miss you.
Until next week…
