I will get to the fountain in this story, but first, some history.
My grandfather, Ernest Robert Heine, was born on June 23, 1898, in Buffalo, Neb. He died on February 9, 1967. The story goes that he died on the York County farm where I grew up with a wrench clutched in his hand. More precisely, he died with the cattle too. There he was found, life over, grasping the tool and laying in the soil while the livestock grazed around him. My brother and his wife now reside, generations later, on that same farm. The cattle are back too. Things are gradually changing for the better.
Ernest’s wife, my Grandmother Ruth (Gonnerman) Heine, who found her husband with that wrench in his hand, was born on June 19, 1907, in York, Neb. She died December 15, 2009, in the same community.
With Grandpa Ernest gone too soon, my dad came back from his college years at Kearney State to take over the responsibilities on the farm, as well as taught school. He and his first wife, my mom Lorraine (Tonniges), began raising a family on the farm. The family was my sister and me. Then my dad remarried, and it was a new family that would lead to two younger brothers as well.
All this change happened when my Grandma Ruth was very much alive and a vibrant, solid presence in our otherwise tumultuous lives.
That brings me to the fountain. A fountain hidden behind the photo of the three women with this story. From the left, looking into the sun with their Sunday dresses on, is my Grandmother Laura Tonniges; my Grandmother Ruth Heine; and my mom, Lorraine (Tonniges) Heine.
After Grandpa Ernest died, Grandma Ruth lived out her days at Arbor Villa apartments in York. They were lovely apartments with a well-kept courtyard complete with flowers and shrubs all around, and a fountain at the center that captivated my sister and I as little girls.
I loved being there. Grandma’s apartment was surrounded by many women of stature like herself, mostly widowed farm wives, who played bridge and enjoyed each other’s company. I came to know them very well too. Grandma would even let me go visit them all dressed up in her classy nightgowns, fully-covered, and adorned with nearly all the necklaces and broaches she owned. I also wore her fancy hats she used to wear to church when that was in fashion.
I would take off around the courtyard and sit a spell with neighbors like Dorothy. We would chat over sugar cookies and lemonade, and I would return to Apartment C106 and tell grandma all about it. Fond memories.
Yesterday, in-between my daughter’s basketball games at a tournament at Emmanuel Lutheran School in York, I stopped back to visit those apartments that so shaped my formative years. I had not been there in nearly 20 years to see the changes that had ensued.
As I walked down the now worn astro turf lined sidewalks, I remembered one of my last phone conversations with grandma before she went for her stay at the nursing home and then passed away. She was distraught because she didn’t know her neighbors at Arbor Villa anymore. One morning she woke up to vomit outside her door. Most likely a young apartment dweller who overdid it partying the night before.
I remember being sad and wishing for the old neighborhood of gray-haired grannies again, with their homemade cookies and scarves covering their curlers. I had changed too. I was off just trying to survive life and had grown so immersed in my own issues that grandma no longer received calls from me like she should have. The guilt riddled me as I pictured the changing picture around her. I pictured the puke outside her door. I wanted to throw up too.
Yesterday I made my way inside the courtyard and stood at the center where the fountain used to be surrounded by pink, yellow, and purple flowers. The only remnants is lime green, cracked paint at the center, the color of what used to be the interior of the fountain. I pictured the copper pennies that lined the bottom of the fountain when we used to make wishes and send them plopping into the clear water.
Things change. As I took a picture with my phone, a woman came out of her apartment and hollered my way. I said hello but she wasn’t making a friendly gesture. I headed out. I had everything I needed in my phone. A picture and a story churning in my mind and tears welling up in my eyes. My throat ached. I swallowed, gathered myself, and walked out.
I am certain there are some incredible hearts and minds still living in those apartments. With dreams. Dreams like we had traversing those sidewalks young and free. College kids studying, and grandparents anticipating visits from their grandchildren. Working people just trying to raise a family. Single moms. Single dads.
People, valuable people, like the women sitting dressed in their best in that picture. Beautiful women I miss. I miss that fountain too. But more so, I miss the community and the wisdom I soaked in traversing that courtyard with grandma’s high heels on. I miss the trust I had in the ladies all around watching out the window and making sure I made it back to grandma’s arms. Her safe, loving arms. What a treasured place.
Yes, safe. We won’t have safe communities if we just concern ourselves with buying more land, or collecting more of this and that. I would like to think the farmers who died before they could sit with their wives in retirement back then, knew better. They knew life was about ensuring their descendants had something better. Not “stuff” better. Quality of life better.
Some of the old guard, you know, the impenetrable “good ol’ boys” clubs, running York, Neb. and rural communities everywhere and across the entire country even, missed some things along the way. I don’t need to tell you. Just look for yourself. Head to Arbor Villa apartments where there is now a Big Iron Auction sign. Head around the nation and see the boarded-up windows and for sale signs. Yes, in the process of selling off farms, consolidating schools, and leaving great chasms between the ag “haves and have-nots” it hasn’t been as “progressive” as I think we all hoped.
Look at the opioid epidemic, alcoholism, drug abuse, suicides, the loneliness, the bullying, domestic abuse, the desperation in parts of every town, everywhere. I see that. I really see it. Because I have lived through, and with, all those topics.
I also see, hope.
If anyone really wonders why I helped start the Graze Master Group - Balancing Nature & Profitability and now serve as its executive director, it has much to do with those three women sitting on that fountain. It also has to do with, years later, what became of that courtyard where I used to roam safely. What became of me too. I contend with her as well. Believe me, it’s an inner-battle and some days I think I should quit. But then I think of the women who did not quit on me.
I too have been in the gutters of what ails agriculture and our rural communities. My grandmother has no idea. I never told her. But she saw the vomit outside her door and she called me. She was afraid. The world was changing. I was and am afraid too.
Let’s get to work. Better yet, let’s learn, let’s really listen to and learn about people. Precious people who live in places like Arbor Villa today. Valuable people who deserve better lives too.
We can do better. We can bring back hope. Hope that springs eternal. Far longer than fountains that are finite, we need to build soil and heal souls. I don’t know how to do that alone, anymore than I trusted myself as a child to make it back alone to grandma’s arms safe and nurtured after my courtyard walks.
We need each other. We need to heal our farms. That healing will help heal our communities. I know it. I believe it.
Not everything has been sold off by the Big Iron Auctions of the world. Not yet anyway. Some would tell you it’s just life, a money game, that fountains and farms come and go. Yes, they come and go, like people do. Like I did. I left. I learned. Now I am back and I am not giving up on anyone. Too many are being left behind. Too many people simply don’t know what they are supposed to do. We need everyone to help. We need everyone to know they are important and have gifts and talents to give.
I know now I will die trying to do something right for rural, for my children, for the world’s children, and their precious fountain of youth that we must keep flowing positively onward for generations to come.
This Sunday Story was about a fountain, and then there was none. It doesn’t end with that fountain. It starts with what we each have to give. We have a lot of good to spring forth. Let’s try.
Copyright© 2025 All Rights Reserved, Kerry Hoffschneider
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