ROYLE HELLE
Royle George Helle was my grandfather. He was my next door neighbor. He was my teacher and my friend. Twenty years after his death he remains my main source of inspiration and motivation. I would like to share my memories of this special man.
As a preschooler, my world was a four-mile radius around a place called Babylon Bend. A half a mile to the east was my Uncle Glen's house. A quarter mile to the west was Grandma and Grandpa Helle's house. Family was a way of life, with the center of activity being Grandma and Grandpas' place. It was a pretty nice start for any kid.
First, I should tell you what I know, (or think I know) about my grandparents' beginnings. Grandpa was the son of George Helle, son of Fredrick. Grandma, (Alta Flora) was the daughter of Tracy Helle Fouts, daughter of Fredrick. As the math goes, that would make my grandparents first cousins. Although we don't mention it much, my father has said more than once that this was the source of several fist fight between him and other cousins.
Alta's parents both died within a relatively short time of each other and she found herself a young woman alone on the farm. My understanding is that Royle helped her run the place and this is how their relationship came to be. They eloped in Missouri. It was told to me that Grandma recalled when she was a young woman all alone, that the nights were painfully dark and lonely. There were no lights in the distance, other than the stars. She said the break of dawn brought her enormous peace. When I found myself divorced with two babies living in my farm house I drew on her strength. . .and I could see the light of neighbors' houses! The fact that I could pick up a phone and call my mom didn't hurt, either. Truth is, I can't imagine what that must have been like, but I bet Royle seemed like a knight in shining armor. Following their wedding they returned to the farm where they brought 5 children into the world. First Ava, then Leila, then Norman, Glen and finally Lodema Joyce. Considering that my grandfather claimed he could play 64 different instruments, you can bet that there was music in the house. One of my favorite photographs is of him and his five-piece "Helle Band", or more appropriate: "Bandits".
They eked out a living during the Depression. Dad told me that one year they could only show an income of $64. But, there were chickens and milk cows and gardening, and so they survived. When WW II broke out, Royle watched his beloved younger brothers heading out in service to their country. I'm told he wrote one of his best poems (no doubt, a tad bit awnry and crude) and mailed it to his brother Gene (at least I think that's who he sent it to) who was stationed in San Francisco. As I understand it, one month later brother Verle was sent to the Philippines and while going to the restroom (where all the good political authors of the day got published), read a funny verse that ended up being the very poem his brother had written. I'd appreciate any relative that can confirm the validity of that story, if anyone has record of the poem itself, I'd love to have a copy.
During the war, it is my understanding that the country was a little paranoid concerning some of it's citizens with German ancestrage. Royle was always vocal about his political convictions, and although he was a loyal American through and through, I guess he wasn't a member of the FDR fan club. At one point FBI or the CIA, or some member of the alphabet soup that is our government came out to ask him some questions. Turned out a "concerned neighbor" had turned him in for being a suspicious character. "Character", yes, "Suspicious", hardly! The fact that the neighbor was a blood relative didn't sit too well. However, I can attest that my grandfather's love of family was far more predominant than his memory. I can say without a doubt that he forgave and forgot. Grandma was much better at holding a grudge and I saw trickles of that particular one when I was a child, but at the time I didn't know why.
It wasn't too long after this that my grandparents purchased a farm on the prairie near Bushnell, IL. Grandma never like it. She preferred the beautiful hills of Spoon River where she'd been raised, even though the rich soil of the prairie had to be more prosperous than the river bottom. It was while living at this farm that my aunt Joyce became ill. She kept a diary that is a delight to read. She truly enjoyed life, the neighbor kids, school work, and especially her family. The last entry is dated in February, 1948. It says "Ava and I didn't feel very good today". Ava got better. Joyce did not. The hospitals feared outbreaks and sent Joyce home, where she lapsed into a coma and eventually died at the tender age of 13 from complications of pneumonia. My father recalled the principal at Bushnell calling a cab and sending the Helle kids home for fear they all had some contagious disease. When the cab driver asked Royle for the fare, he told him to go to Hell. Joyce was buried next to her grandma and grandpa Fouts in the Wiley Lutheran Cemetery near Blyton. I am told that while being comforted by one of his siblings, Royle laughed following the funeral. Alta was very wounded by this. This might explain the relationship I observed between my grandparents. Dad says Grandma was never really the same following Joyce's death. Grandma had many emotional lows to deal with in her life which may have had a lot to do with the somber woman I remember, . . .that, and being a staunch Lutheran.
For obvious reasons, the Bushnell farm never held the same appeal, and the family returned to Babylon Bend. My dad had one more year of high school, and was allowed to finish his education in Bushnell. My uncle Glen graduated from the Spoon River Valley school District in Fairview. In the next decade give or take a few years, the children made lives of their own. Soon, Royle and Alta took on new roles as "Grandma and Grandpa".
And now, through the eyes of this child. . . I recall a man in bib overalls, (if it was summer you could guarantee no shirt). I'll never forget taking one last bike ride at dusk on a hot summer night when I was 8 or so. I could hear Grandpa playing the piano and I was drawn to sneak up and take a peek, maybe "surprise" him. I walked on the front porch past Grandma's bedroom window, where she lay reading her bible, and up to the open parlor door where I got the surprise! Grandpa was sitting "buck-naked", ripping out tunes on his "piany". I believe I belly-crawled off the porch like a soldier in combat, and hurried down the rode on my bike. I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone until years after his death. Today I chuckle every time I think of it! He loved to laugh, to tell jokes, and re-tell jokes. When he'd introduce me to a new hymn, tears would well up in his eyes and his voice would crack as he'd stress the meaning of the lyrics to me; songs like "The Old Rugged Cross", and "Beyond The Sunset". He was as good a listener as a story teller. He made people feel "special". This couldn't have been more true than for his grandkids. I recall hot summer afternoons, he'd take out his thin-worn pocket knife and slice open a watermelon and divide amongst a gaggle of sweaty little grandkids. How he'd howl with delight as we'd try to out eat one another! Little boys with bare bellies that expanded till they looked like they'd swallowed a basketball, with red, sticky stains extending from their chins to their belly buttons, Grandpa would always want to finish the event with one last challenge. The boys would all take their turn climbing the living room doorway with their legs at a 45o angle from the knees. If it wasn't that, then it was "who could make the best arm-pit noises". These were "rights of passage" that us girls weren't invited to participate in. We did get our special time, however. It almost always involved the parlor, where we'd sing and eventually learn how to play the musical saw.
Probably because I lived the closest, (and therefore the law of averages gave me an advantage), Grandpa taught me to accompany him on the piano (or "piany", as he'd say) with a basic 8 measure, three chord vamp that was versatile for many a fiddle tune. Then he taught me to transpose it into different keys, giving him more musical options. When I started piano lessons I took to it like a fish to water, largely because of my start with Grandpa, who taught himself to read music, of course he played largely by ear. From this point on, my life was on a path that it's never veered from. Grandpa would take me, my cousin June, her sister Norma, and once in a while our cousin Steve on performance trips. We'd sing and play the musical saw, which eventually became Grandpa's claim to fame. He played it with two fiddle bows crossed in the middle so that he got two tones (an octave apart) from his instrument of choice, a Sandvick, straight-backed saw. I proudly display it above my doorway, with the Helle coat of arms sticker that he put on it. About once a year I get it down and play it in church. It gives me an excuse to brag on the man I get to call "GRANDPA".
I eventually got pretty good at the piano, could be because every time my grandpa Royle would come over he'd tie his handkerchief around my eyes and have me play "The Beer Barrel Polka", after which he'd promptly pull out a $20 bill and hand it to me. I would have done it for free.
My grandparents also saw to it that I and their other grandchildren got to church. Wiley Lutheran church was the start of our spiritual instruction. There were several older women, (the Utsinger sisters) who attended as well. Often Grandpa would reminisce about the time he got 11 of those sisters in his car with him. It always brought an enormous smile to his face. This probably followed one of his many engagements playing at a local dance. Speaking of his youth, he graduated from Cuba High School, where his graduation picture still hangs on the wall. He attended McMurry College in Jacksonville, IL for a while. I'm sure it would please him to know Ava's granddaughter, Melanie Boyce is now receiving her higher education in the same town. He traveled with the circus band playing the clarinet or what ever else they needed him to. To look at the photo of this group, Grandpa Royle was by far the most handsome young man in the group. It's pretty safe to assume he "lived it up a little" before he settled down with Grandma.
Growing up, I didn't think my grandparents seemed to care too much for each other. To me, Grandma seemed irritated by most of what Grandpa did or said. She was a "down to business" sort of woman, and Grandpa got "side-tracked" easily by his sheer love of life. I only saw them kiss once, when Grandma was in the hospital, shortly before she died. Because I so connected with Grandpa, I resented Grandma's sternness. When all the other good Lutherans would break tradition and applaud me for some musical presentation, she would not. I knew she avoided being close to me and that hurt. There were times when I'd see Aunt Ava drive by with my cousins aboard and Grandma would call mom to ask that I "not come over today". I did not understand my grandmother until the summer she became ill. After her stroke, the family tried to care for her at home for a while. I remember being there once when she was disoriented and kept talking about "how lovely Joyce looked", as she made reference to me. For the first time I understood why she had trouble being around me, especially when my two girl cousins were there. At that time, we were 15, 14 and 12 and bore a striking resemblance to the three daughters she'd raised. I guess some things are just too painful to remember. After this I made peace with her in my heart. Now when I remember her, I see a woman in a faded cotton dress with a straw hat leaning on a hoe in the garden at the end of the day. I think of her sitting in her wooden rocker with a board across the arms to steady her diary as she documented the day's activities. I remember her sitting in bed reading her bible, no doubt ending the day with a prayer for protection over her loved ones.
When daughter Leila moved to the desert of Arizona, my grandparents enjoyed winter visits. After Grandma died in 1974, Grandpa spent the bulk of his winters living with her family. Of course he took his saw and his fiddle so he could entertain the senior citizens and school children of Ajo, Arizona. I remember seeing pictures of him being hugged with great affection by his new-found friends, dark-eyed Indian children and leathery-skinned seniors so different from our German look. . .when love is genuine, it transcends racial and cultural borders. Royle Helle was the "real thing" and anyone who knew him could tell you that.
It was so strange during his departures from Babylon Bend to look out the west window of our house and not see a light shining from Grandpa's house. I can't explain the comfort I felt when I could see that little beacon coming from his window, but to this day I find myself looking West when I'm leaving Mom and Dad's house. . in hopes. . .
Recently, the man who owns what was once the family farm where my grandparents lived told the tenant to leave, as he was fixing to tear the house down. Because of this decision, he let my dad go in and tear out the kitchen cabinets that he'd made for Grandma in the 60's. This also meant he had a key to the old home place, and my cousin June (Ava's daughter) and I met there one evening to take a stroll down memory lane. We paused at each nook and cranny in the house to experience a rush of vivid memories that I thought had long since departed from my brain. Then we did the same thing outside in the yard and in the barns. We cried and we laughed, and soon the darkness took over and we had to bring our journey to an end. How fortunate we are to have such warm and secure memories of childhood! How fortunate to have had the example of a Grandparent who adored his brothers and sisters, and each one of their descendants. How honored to be raised in an environment of respect. How blessed to be in a lineage of virtue, to see the value of hard work, the benefits of leisure time and an appreciation for the delicacy of this thing called "life", and for our God and Creator who so abundantly endows us and sustains us through the good and bad.
Being a Helle, I am certain that I can take pride in my heritage. It is obvious we share a blood line of strong-wills, perseverance, creativity and ingenuity. We have survived in rough times and thrived in bounty. The single thread that keeps this tapestry of life from unraveling is the blood that courses through our veins. Family is not what we are, but WHO we are. It defines us, body, mind and spirit. What lies ahead, only God knows, but one thing I feel quite sure of. . .long before we began our short stay on this Earth, someone prayed for the future generations of the this family. This is undoubtedly our greatest heritage and one that shows evidence of having been passed along. My hope is that we continue this tradition for the sake of our children, and their children and their children's children...
-Paula Jean Helle, 1/17/00, 17th generation
