Last issue we talked about several of us Neligh guys going down to Petersburg to practice boxing for Vernon Hixson’s big Golden Gloves Fight in Neligh on July 4th.
     Three of us guys had never boxed before or even been to a Golden Gloves match.
     Tim Brennan was from down in the Raeville-Petersburg area and he had been in the boxing ring. He was quite good at the sport. He could hold his own in the ring.
By Sid Charf
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​     As I was sitting in church last Sunday, my eyes kept wandering back to a man sitting a few aisles in front of me.
     He reminded me of someone I knew quite well many years ago.
     And then it struck me. He reminded me of my old friend, Vernon Hixson.
     Vern was a county deputy and later on, Antelope County Sheriff, in Neligh, Nebraska back when I was a teenager. Our paths crossed many times back in those years.
By Sid Charf
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     Guess who was waiting for us when we came out of that cornfield?
     Two Neligh firemen and a tanker truck. We were instructed to stay where we were while they fired up the truck and sprayed us down with as much pressure as our skins would allow.
      Evidently, Doug Jones had warned enough people of the situation at hand. Most of the town now knew we had been sprayed many times by a skunk.
By Sid Charf
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     On the north side of the slough stood an old corn crib. It had been there for many years and it had seen better days.
     We really never paid any attention to that corn crib until one day my dog, Jiggs, cocked his head, bared his teeth, started growling very low and took off for the crib. He ran to a hole that went under the crib and started digging in an extreme frenzy.
By: Sid Charf
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     Not every small town in Nebraska has a Huckleberry Finn, but if Neligh was to have one, I’d like to raise my hand for the nomination. Me, my buddies and my old dog, Jiggs, ran up and down the Elkhorn River all through the years of our adolescence. We knew where every rabbit hole, squirrel nest, coyote den and catfish hole was within a wide radius of town. We spent hours upon hours doing what little boys do out on the sandbars after baseball practice on hot, summer afternoons and weekends.
​By: Sid Charf
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     After spending most of the afternoon trying to get his lawn mower started, railroad retiree Charlie finally admitted that his mower had reached the end of its working life and made the fifty mile trip to the nearest town of O’Neill, in search of a new lawn mower. A helpful employee showed Charlie several different lawn mower models  and demonstrated how they were operated. Charlie made his choice of a new lawn mower, paid for it and took it home. Being it was late in the day, he decided mowing the lawn could wait until the next day.
By: Marita Placek
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     Even as a child I was fascinated with history. For some reason I had never been all that interested in genealogy even though that is the record of where I came from, my family tree. I became more interested when an uncle traced those spreading limbs back into the 1500’s and claimed a French king as an ancestor. “Wow”, I thought. “I’m descended from royalty!” That puts a lot of stress on one’s shoulders, trying to maintain that regal attitude and bearing is harder than you would think. But now I’m off the hook after discovering that one of my forebearers was a true “Black Sheep.” You see, my great-great Aunt Augusta was a Madame. Not as a politician would address a female who happened to be the leader of the House of Representatives as “Madam Speaker”, or as a gentleman might respectfully greet a woman whom he admired.  No, “Aunt Gusty” as she is referred to in our family history, was a real Madame who owned and ran a “House of Ill Repute” in Springfield, Ill. in the late 1800’s. There she was known as “Madame Brownie”.
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We intend this page in Living Here to be the our last chance this issue to make you smile!

by Alexandra McClanahan
​     Turning 50, with the rock band Steppenworf’s 1968 “Born to be Wild” reverberating in my head, I decided to buy a motorcycle.
I had ridden on the back of motorcycles, but never driven one. I decided to start small, so I bought a blood-red Kawasaki 175, named “ The Eliminator.” I also bought a helmet and leather gear. My husband was not keen on the bike, but he offered to teach me to ride it. Until then, I had no idea he knew how to operate a motorcycle. I learned he had ridden in his younger years. He even had one in Yakutat, Alaska, which receives an annual rainfall of 155 inches and has mostly gravel roads.
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We intend this page in Living Here to be the our last chance this issue to make you smile!

The Mouse and Us, by Alexandra McClanahan     
     Knowing if I saw a mouse that there were many more I could not see, I taught myself how to set the mousetraps. My daughter and I set them every night and every day. (My husband’s work kept him in Anchorage.) We put them around the tiny back porch, the kitchen and the living room where we slept. Terrified of being alone in the middle of nowhere, neither of us wanted to sleep in the bedroom. So I bought used twin beds that we put into the living room, and we slept there together.
Read the entire story in the latest edition of Living Here magazine. 
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We intend this page in Living Here to be the our last chance this issue to make you smile!