FRED E. AND TILLIE [HRBEK] MINARIK
Fred E. Minarik, the son of Vaclav F. and Barbora (Hercik) Minarik,
was born March 9, 1895, in the vicinity of Pischelville, Knox
County, Nebraska.
Fred grew up on his parents’ farm, attended Steele Creek School, and
labored on this farm for his parents until 1922 when he moved onto a
farm nearby where he began farming for himself.
On June 16, 1937, he was united in marriage to Tillie Hrbek,
daughter of Frank and Christina (Wirth) Hrbek. To this union three
daughters were born: Lorene, Gladys, and Jean.
Lorene, now Lorene Dufek, has two daughters, Julie and Lauri.
Gladys, Mrs. Tom Earl, has two children, Marcia and Vickie. Jean,
now Mrs. John Sedlacek, has three children, Jane, Janice, and
Steven.
Along with farming, Fred had a fondness for horses - raising,
training, and riding them. He enjoyed music and dancing, and played
the bass violin, accordion, and harmonica. During his youth, he
played in an orchestra with his father and brothers. Later, when his
children were growing up and learning to play the piano, saxophone,
and clarinet, he enjoyed playing his accordion with them in harmony.
Having a great devotion for his family, he would always think of
them before he thought of himself.
On July 18, 1985, he departed from this life and was laid to eternal
rest at the Pischelville Cemetery close to the farm where he lived
and worked all his life.
The following is a tribute to Fred E. Minarik written by his
granddaughter, Vickie Earl.
Of Time and Nebraska Rains
Every summer for as long as I can remember, my family would take a
week-long vacation to Nebraska to visit my grandparents. In younger
years, this meant 500 miles of seemingly endless highways, and 500
miles of meek voices asking “Mom, are we there yet?” as our
dust-covered car crawled exhaustedly down the sandy driveway that
led to my grandparents’ home; however, it all seemed worth it.
Because on Grandpa’s farm, life was different. For some reason, the
sun seemed to shine a little brighter, the grass seemed to grow a
little greener, and the billowy clouds that passed through the sky
were not ominous storm clouds, but fluffy pieces of cotton candy
floating by.
Countless childhood memories were formed on that farm: memories of
downy yellow chicks waddling clumsily behind their mother; dozens of
baby kittens running playfully through the barn, dodging the
stick-like legs of the new-born calves; small hands tightly wrapped
around the waist of a farmer while driving in a shiny red tractor
over bumpy fields dotted with freshly-cut haystacks. Memories of
Grandpa who had a heart of gold.
[pg 334 PHOTO Left to right: Lorene, Jean, Tillie and Fred
Minarik, and Gladys]
Grandpa always loved the rain. Endless hours were spent standing
placidly by the window, calloused hands set deeply in the pockets of
his blue-and-white-striped overalls, bright, smiling eyes fixed on
the heaven-sent drops tumbling down on the rich Nebraska farmland.
“A million dollar rain,” he would say, knowing that his crops would
now flourish.
As the years slipped quietly by, time began to take its toll,
changing everyone and everything. The 500-mile trips changed,
becoming much less chaotic. The farm animals changed. Over the
years, we had witnessed the births, lives, and deaths of many
generations of chicks and kittens, to the point where all that
remained was one full-grown cat. The shiny red tractor changed. Its
home was no longer in the fields, but a forgotten spot behind the
barn, with unmowed grass blowing carefully against its rusted metal.
And Grandpa changed. The hands placed in the overall pockets now
housed deeper wrinkles and arthritis. The eyes that once gazed so
contentedly at the rain drops were now losing their shine, slowly
letting go of the grin of mischief that was once embedded in them. A
wooden cane was now gripped angrily for support when Grandpa stood
at the window to reminisce of days gone by. For now, dreaming and
remembering were all that he could do. His failing health no longer
permitted him to do what he had loved so dearly … farm.
I can vividly recall the betrayal and hurt I saw on Grandpa’s face
as he watched the young hired hand drive down the road to take over
his chores. Grandpa knew what was happening, and he hated it. He was
not ready for this; he was not ready to give up farming. I could
understand how he felt, for I was not ready to watch this happen.
But with time comes acceptance, and eventually we all realized that
this was how it was going to be; nothing could change it. No matter
how much we wished it could be done, the threatening hands of the
clock cannot be magically turned back.
Grandpa is gone now. He left us in the summer of 1985 at the age of
90. We buried him in a peaceful country cemetery under a large cedar
tree with out-stretched arms. The soil that covered the
brass-trimmed casket was not just dirt; it was the same soil that
his hands had worked with, loved, and nurtured for so many years.
I had always thought that when the time came to say goodbye to
Grandpa, it would be one of the hardest things that I would have to
do. Yes, it was hard, but something made it seem a little easier,
almost right. On the day Grandpa died, the sun did not shine…it
rained.
Grandpa always loved the rain.
Pages
334, 335
