Three little kids in the back seat of a weathered, orange 1957 Volkswagen
waiting for the light to change;
Three teenagers having fun in a big, souped up car
waiting for the light to change.
The stage was set and the kids started urging, “Do it, Dad, do it!”
Dad revved the motor a couple of times. Dad looked at the other car with a raised eyebrow.
The looked down on us with scorn.
Of course they could beat us across that intersection.
The light changed. The souped up car streaked across the intersection while Dad lazily shifted into second gear and chugged, chugged to the other side while the kids howled with glee, “You got ’em, Dad, you got ’em.”

Three little kids in the back seat of an anthracite gray Volkswagen
Travelling across country to see their big sister, Lynda, in college.
We sang songs, rounds, hymns, choruses, silly songs, made up new words to old tunes and they never got tired of it. One of their favorites was singing “Leaning on Jesus” as they swayed to the music. We decided to stop for something to drink so we told them to put on their shoes. Same couldn’t fine one of his shoes and Susie said, in her sweet mothering voice, “Well now, let’s see, where were you last?”

Three growing kids packed into the back seat of a black Volkswagen, late afternoon, heading out to Hubble’s cottage for the evening. It was hot, no air conditioning, the children were tired, the traffic was heavy as we worked our way through the southern edge of Grand Haven. Finally we cleared out of the traffic, up a little incline and there it was at last, the beautiful expanse of Lake Michigan. Out of the back seat Jack’s voice exploded, “Good for you, Dad, I knew you could do it!”

Leaning on the fender of a tan, 1969 Volkswagen was Sam, sobbing uncontrollably. We had just returned from the vet where his problem cat was to be put to sleep for biting a neighbor girl. Sam’s friends gathered around and tried to console him, but it didn’t help. Fifteen minutes later I saw Sam happy and laughing. I asked him what had happened? He said, “I know I’m not supposed to play with that Rob, I know he uses bad words, but he is my friend and I now own half of his cat.”

~ Carolyn Baker 4/24/2006

Grandpa Bouman was an avid sportsman with a seasoned knowledge of fishing and hunting.  He loved dogs and trained them well.  The Bouman Family tradition was for the men in the family to go rabbit hunting on Thanksgiving morning while the women prepared the dinner.  Dad had many good memories of those years of hunting and fishing with his brothers and his Dad and so, of course, when we married, our family included a dog.  Our dogs were well behaved; it usually took just one trip around the block for a puppy to learn to “heal” and to “stay.”  Then came Dolly.

She was such an adorable puppy; a lively ball of fur and full of spunk.  We knew it was more than we should pay but we just couldn’t resist.  With laughter in our hearts we walked out the door with our registered Wire Haired Terrier.

Dad firmly believed any dog could be trained to be man’s best friend and he had lots of experience.  House breaking was easy, it must have been innate in Dolly’s pricey genes because that is all we were able to teach her.  She would not come when called or sit or stay or speak or roll over; all those things that other dogs love to do for their proud owners, Dolly treated with disdain.  She claimed the wing chair as her own and became part of our family.

At that time we lived in Steward, Illinois, a small bedroom community with uptight rules about pets.  No dogs were allowed to run free.  The town also had a dedicated Dog Catcher who loved to enforce the law.  $25.00 for every infraction.  He loved his job. 

One cold winter night Dad decided to teach Dolly to “come.”  After he was sure all the neighbors were asleep in their beds, he bundled up in a heavy wool sweater, put some dog treats in his pocket, fastened a sturdy rope to Dolly’s collar and out they went into the frigid night.  I opened the drapes to watch the show. I can still see them under the street light, Dad shuffling his feet to keep warm and Dolly dancing and prancing at the end of her tether to break free. Glittering snow crystals were peacefully drifting down on them, indifferent to the coming battle.

Dad called “come.”  Dolly did not budge.  Dad pulled her in inch by inch, she fighting all the way.  Dad patter her, gave her a treat, said, “good dog,” let her go again.  Every time, she hit the end of the rope with a choking lurch.  Over and over Dad repeated the drill, each time encouraging her saying “good, good dog.”  After awhile the treats ran low; Dad was loosing his voice and his “good dogs” were coming through clenched teeth, but he would not give up.  The battle ended after one mighty jerk broke the rope free and Dolly raced, dragging the rope behind her at the speed that could easily get her to the Mississippi River by morning.  When Dad came inside fro the cold he dispiritedly remarked “a dog who refuses to be trained will soon be dead.”

Breakfast was a gloomy affair the next morning.  The children didn’t expect to see their dog again.  Then the phone rang, a neighbor, several blocks to the west said our dog was tangled up in her bushes, would we please come right away before the Dog Catcher made his rounds.  We were glad to have Dolly safely back home.  She settled into her chair like nothing had happened and took a long nap.  As he days went by, Dolly became fond of Jack and we thought there might be hope for her after all.

Several months later we transferred to Warsaw, Indiana.  This was a small town with lots of traffic, not a good place for an independent dog, but we were careful. Nevertheless, in all the confusion of moving, Dolly, waiting her chance, shot out the door with Jack in chase.  Jack’s 13 year old legs were no match for that dog and she was gone.  A short time later, a small delivery truck drove up. The driver told us he was very sorry he had run over our dog and he had taken her to the vet.  I was to call the vet and his insurance would cover the expenses.  The vet said Dolly was badly injured and I instructed him to put her to sleep.  Was that the end of the story?  Not yet.

Two weeks later, I received a call from the vet.  he had managed to save our dog… would we come and get her?  I told him we did not want the dog, but he was reluctant to put her to sleep because she was such a valuable dog; would we mind if he found a home for her?  Permission granted.  Still not the end of the story.

The ad was in the Warsaw Times Union for one day:  “Registered Wire Haired Terrier,” and we all hoped she would find a good home.  Four weeks later, we saw the same ad in the same paper.  It had to be our Dolly again, and we all laughed knowingly.  Not too long after that, the ad appeared one more time and then silence… we never knew for sure what became of Dolly, but with her strength and tenacity, she most likely won the freedom she struggled so hard to gain, and that would be The End.  Goodbye Dolly.