Sheephead and Other Stories

Stanton was a small town and the local tavern was a meeting place, much like a coffee shop. The one across from the Register office was frequented by many businessmen and farmers, not only after hours but during the day.

They played a card game called “Sheephead,” schoscop in German, I believe. Each player paid a dime per game and the winner would win merchandise. The house got the ante, of course.

That small amount was not significant, even in the 1950s, but winning or losing was serious stuff. One farmer I remember had the financial ability to buy or sell most of the players but he did not like to lose. In fact he cheated, and most of the players knew he did. When they caught him, they called him on it and he accepted the challenge and made it right. He really got mad, however, when he was accused of cheating and he had not.

Another fellow, owner of the local elevator, usually sat with his shirt unbuttoned showing a heavy mat of gray hair on his chest. As the game progressed he would get so intense he would sit there pulling out chunks of hair.

This same fellow owned a farm and raised cattle. One year he went to Mexico and bought a railroad car load of long horn cattle at a ridiculously low price. He figured to bring them back to Stanton County, feed them out, and make a pile of money. The problem they presented, however, was that the cattle were accustomed to wide open ranges and did not respect the fences of the Midwest. Louie, the farmer, liked to inspect his cattle from his Cadillac but these Mexican animals were so wild he tore up a brand new vehicle chasing them through the broken fences.

Louie’s daughter was just reaching puberty and her mother bought her a training bra. She retreated to her bedroom to put it on and then came out to show her mom how grown up she had become. She reappeared with the device on outside of her white tee shirt. Her sister, by the way, worked briefly for us at the paper and later married a man who became publisher of the Fairbury Journal in Nebraska.

Rural life displayed itself one day when a man came in to the office to renew his subscription. He was dirty and wearing ragged clothes. Janice happened to be in the front office at the time and waited on him. He rifled through his bib overalls and came up a few cents short. I walked in just in time to hear Janice tell him she would put the shortage in for him.

After he left, she told me she felt so sorry for that man. He had so little money but still wanted his paper. I hated to disillusion my wife but I knew the man. He was a local cattle feeder and owned half the county. He probably had just come from the field and that kind of appearance was not unusual for him.

I had a reverse faux pas one day when a gentleman came into the office dressed in a nice brown business suit. I asked him if I could help him and he wanted some information on advertising rates. He said he had just bought the local cafe. I introduced myself and welcomed him to the Stanton business community. He looked at me rather quizzically and said he was no newcomer. He had been born in Stanton and worked at the local elevator. When he said his name, I was so embarrassed I could hardly talk. It was a man I drank coffee with in a group nearly every day at the coffee shop. He normally came in with chaff from the grinding mill all over him and I simply had not recognized him all cleaned up in a business suit.