Summer 1909
Lilly shifted the infant, her little brother Robert, in her arms a bit, listening to what the minister was saying. She blinked back the tears that stung her eyes and studied the faces of the others who stood at the graveside. The oldest brothers, fifteen-year-old Clarence and Oscar, twelve, were trying to be strong and manly but their red eyes and noses belied them. The little boys, Gilbert and Raymond, six and four respectively, didn’t try so hard to be brave and clung to the skirts of their older sisters Selma and Helen, who wept softly. Lilly gave them a small smile of encouragement. Selma, at age fourteen, had already proven an invaluable help and support. Helen was only ten, but she had grown up fast in the three days since Mama died.
Lilly herself had needed to grow up at an early age. As the firstborn of a family of nine children, she had acted as a second mother to her sisters and brothers for years. Now seventeen, she was more than capable of taking care of the brood and the house as well as her mother had. What would be missing was her mother’s advice and encouragement, and her love.
As miserable as she was feeling, though, the pain and bewilderment on her father’s face tore at her heart. August Bobe had always thought that he and his wife would grow old together, watching their children have families of their own. But having nine children in eighteen years can take a heavy toll on even the strongest woman, and at only forty-three years of age Anna Sophia’s heart had given out, just three months after little Robert’s birth.
As the family turned away from the grave and started toward the wagon that would take them home, baby Robert began to fuss. Aunt Louise patted Lilly’s arm. “I’ll take him now, dear,” she said, and Lilly regretfully handed the baby to her. Much discussion had gone on in the past two days and it was decided that Aunt Lou and Uncle John, August’s brother, who had no children of their own, would take Robert and raise him in town. He was a sweet baby and Lilly loved him dearly, but she finally had been forced to admit that caring for a young infant along with the rest of the family would be more than she could manage.
Lilly felt a tug at her sleeve, and looked down into the sad crystal-blue eyes of her little sister Emma. Only seven years old, she had always been a quiet, solemn child, and was even more so now. “Lilly,” Emma said, sniffling, “what’s going to happen to us?”
“I don’t know exactly, Emmy,” Lilly said, putting her arm around the little girl and giving her a hug. “But as long as we’re together, we’ll get along just fine.”
And the family did get along just fine. The Bobes were of strong stock, and the words “quit” and “give up” were not part of their vocabulary. August’s parents had endured a long ocean voyage when they emigrated from Prussia in the northern area of Germany in 1852, resolutely overcoming language and cultural barriers after disembarking in New Orleans, and working their way north to settle in Knox County in southwestern Indiana. Anna Sophia Vollmer’s family, also immigrants, had been cut from a similar sturdy cloth.
August, born in 1867, was the ninth of eleven children, so the tending of a large family in itself was not daunting for him. He was a good manager and he was blessed with good, hardworking children, which was fortunate indeed because not only did the youngsters have farm and household work, they also were expected to assist with the family business, tending the cows of the Bobe Dairy and processing the milk they produced. The family’s primary source of income came from selling the milk in Vincennes, delivered door-to-door to customers by August in his horse-drawn wagon.
Lilly was by nature a “mother hen,” a good thing since she and Selma had their hands full with the never-ending cycle of cooking, canning, gardening, cleaning, and laundry. Farm work was hard on the family’s clothing, so there was always a pile of sewing and mending that needed to be done as well. By the time all the chores were done and the youngsters put to bed, there was little time for socializing. The girls fell exhausted into their beds at night, talking a bit and sharing dreams, happy just to be together.
The years passed and the children began to grow into young adults. They got their education at the one-room school about a half-mile from their home, all going only through eighth grade. All but Helen, that is, who had the opportunity to go to high school in Vincennes and become a teacher. (Little Robert, raised as an only child by his doting uncle and aunt, was privileged enough to not only go to college but also medical school. His promising future was cut short, however, when he died of an apparent congenital heart defect at age twenty-nine.)
The little ones grew into big ones and moved away, starting families of their own. August never remarried, and Lilly and Selma remained at the home place with him. A quiet but contented trio they were until one night Selma awoke with agonizing pain in her belly. The local doctor did what he could, but it was of no use and the young woman died hours later of peritonitis from a ruptured appendix. She was only thirty-one.
August grieved at the loss of his beloved daughter, but Lilly was devastated. She and Selma, having been through so much together, were so close it almost seemed that they shared the same thoughts. For Lilly, a part of her soul had been torn away.
She worked through her sorrow by keeping busy, especially with her much-loved sewing and needlecraft — embroidery, crocheting, and tatting were popular in those days — and her favorite pastime, her flower garden. She was an unusually intelligent woman who often quoted the poetry learned while attending the little country school. Lilly was a happy person by nature, and her cheerful demeanor was a joy to everyone around her. She never owned an automobile and never learned to drive one, choosing instead to depend on friends and neighbors to provide transportation for shopping, going to church, and visiting family. Perhaps learning to drive was not of interest to her because she preferred passing the time spent on errands talking and just being with those she loved.
My aunt Lilly remained what in those days was called a spinster and stayed at the family homestead, even after my grandfather’s death in November of 1932 of injuries he suffered a few weeks earlier when he was attacked by a bull. It may be that, having raised her siblings and helping out with their children, she didn’t need a family of her own. The closest she came to that was when she took her nephew Bob to live with her when his mother became unable to care for him.
As a child, I never gave much thought to how special Aunt Lilly was. She was just Aunt Lilly. She was always available to stay and take care of us any time Mother had to be away, and we all were used to having her around at Sunday dinners and at family reunions, where she would always bring one of her marvelous dishes. The family knew they had a treasure in her, a real culinary jewel. What they didn’t know was that others far beyond the family circle also knew of Lilly’s talents.
Aunt Lilly had developed a reputation for her kitchen skills, and word had traveled as far as America’s Southwest. How this happened, I don’t know, but in the late 1940s she worked several years for Barry Goldwater’s household in Arizona. The home fires called to her, though, and she returned to Indiana where she was put in charge of the cafeteria of a grade school near Vincennes. The children ate well and even the teachers praised the wonderful food, leaving the principal at a loss to understand how they could enjoy such delightful meals every day and still make a profit!
As clever with her finances as she was with food, by the time she returned to Indiana, independent Lilly had managed to save enough money to purchase her own homes, first one in Vincennes and a later another one a couple of miles out of town. Her legendary flower gardens went with her, always started from scratch with seeds and “starts” from friends and family. Summer days would find her in the back of the house where the cutting gardens were located, clipping blooms for bouquets for church and shut-ins.
Aunt Lilly spent her entire lifetime serving others, but she was never subservient. Lilly Bobe was a strong woman with a mind of her own who did what she wanted to do. She died in 1967 at age seventy-five, but it wasn’t until several years later that I began to fully understand and appreciate what a remarkable person she was. I had been lucky enough to inherit her carefully preserved files filled with all kinds of household tips and recipes clipped from newspapers and magazines, and as I went through them I discovered to my surprise how much like her I am, always clipping and filing, dreaming about flower gardens I wish I had the time to grow and whipping up tasty meals out of almost nothing.
It’s a shame it takes the perspective of growing older ourselves to realize how much we loved and appreciated someone who’s gone. But is it ever too late to tell them how we feel? True, it’s always better to do so when that dear one is still living, but I try to express my love for my aunt Lilly by trying to be like her and remembering her in my prayers. She had a lot of experience with young children and their concern for nothing beyond the next day, but she was the very soul of patience, and I’m sure she knows how I feel and didn’t mind waiting to hear it from me. I sure hope so.