1931 Part IV
“C” - Spring and Summer
The next items are quite clear in my memory, but the
timing within the seasons are definitely out of focus. Much of the time in our tour through the
past, chronology has been the real sticker.
If, perchance, it is discovered that certain details seem irrational or
they begin to crowd other features into the wrong context, then it’s time to
use the brakes!
Sometime before summer vacation began,
It must have been on a weekend and probably sometime in
May that we were back with
We must have been well loaded as we headed south that
morning. Those sedans of the late
‘twenties were cramped compared to what would become “wider on the inside” in
the late forties and early fifties. Two
adults in the front seat with a skinny kid wedged between was about the
limit. The rear seat was only slightly
more spacious, but folks back then could adapt to such things. On our trip that day there were two adult
men, two adult women and two kids grade school age. Glennie would no
doubt be along. Help me out on that,
Margie! Bill, our baby brother, would
complete the list.
I don’t remember the conversation at all. I was completely absorbed with the winding
roads, the nearby hills, the creeks and the farmyards we passed. There were several places where the barns had
burned, made obvious by the brick or tile silos which remained, something like
monuments. There was a design among the
masonry type of upright silos, in those days which was really neat. By arranging the color of brighter blocks
among the more drab the builders worked in an appearance which resembled a huge
chain clamped about the upper courses.
The country was pretty in the spring.
There were forested hills with fields and meadows in the valleys, some
narrow and some more expansive. Many of
the pastures and clearings extended right up the more gentle slopes and on over
the hilltops. This was stimulating
compared to the flat lowlands around home.
Somewhere south of Tomah we crossed “the divide” where the
watershed drained southward by way of the Kickapoo. We followed this river for miles and it
seemed like hours. Much of the time we
traveled no more than thirty to thirty-five miles an hour. On straight, level roads back then Dad seldom
exceeded “forty”. The road was winding
as it followed the crooked watercourse, and there seemed to be a major bridge
every few miles. Overhead steel trusses
predominated.
At Lafarge we bore off east from the river toward the
object of our journey. Ruby now knew the
country well and we counted on her for directions. We entered the hamlet of
I remember the conversation emanating from a young child
in that old house. He was still close to
the toddler stage, but he could talk!
Like most young children, the little guy was out to capture his share of
attention. He was going from person to
person among these newcomers, and the news he was anxious to share concerned
“Little Muggie.”
Apparently there had been another young child who had now “joined the
angels.” Or perhaps a case of mental
problems or other debilitation. This
humble home was pretty much the same poverty level as was the Kennedy’s. Children didn’t have much of a base as a
springboard toward life, and yet they were willing to accept things as they
found them. This young one, like many of
his kind, could put so much of expression into his young vocabulary. An older person could just see the feelings
and emotions in those young eyes. The
tragedy of circumstances “beyond their control” could really strike home. In a few short minutes each of us had been
informed, “they took little Muggie!”
I was absolutely absorbed in the wonder of all those
hills. I could not take in enough of
their grandeur to satisfy my yearnings.
The more I could see of them and their secrets, the more I wanted. I was soon exploring around outside the old
house where the Hartley’s lived. There
opened away in an off direction from the building a most inviting glen, or
ravine, which led downward through the woodlands; and I was soon following a
small brook where the clear water flowed around numerous bends and curves and
along the straight-aways. I followed it
on and on as it wound in and around among the trees and between the rather
steep walls where the hills reached back towards the sky. At length I came to a cross fence where I
decided to retrace my course.
At such times I never recall having a “lost” feeling as I
wandered alone through natural wilderness.
As a rule of thumb there would be but two directions: up and down. I would become at one with nature, and there
would be an overpowering “feeling” that I trod where I was designed to be. Come to think of it, I never in my lifetime
have learned to adjust and feel at ease when “lost” in the crowds and throngs
of humanity. Back at the house I may
have been away for up to an hour, and that time had been solid enjoyment!
I was back in the presence of assembled relatives and
friends. They acted a bit startled at my
return; but when they began enquiring as to where I had been I didn’t think any
of them had really missed me at all that much.
Anyhow, when they got it out of me as to where I had been, right away
the older folks who lived there (or was it Ruby?) began telling wild tales of
blacksnakes which lived down there, where I had just been. Those reptiles were in those woods for only
one reason: to dominate the natural scene and to threaten and persecute people
who dared invade that territory, especially boys! Why those cursed things actually lay in
ambush in the tree branches overhead, and they had a vicious habit of dropping
“right out of the sky” upon their unsuspecting victims; and of course, these
vermin were the most poisonous of all, even worse than rattlesnakes or
scorpions! It mattered not that I was
right at the point of leaving childhood.
But after all, I was growing up, and becoming calloused and more or less
skeptical of these “authoritative” descriptions. I had been exposed to these “scare” tactics
for at least a decade, or, in other words, for my entire lifetime. I was beginning to understand that people in
general derive a morbid satisfaction from throwing a scare into their kindred
human beings and then laughing loudly at the reactions. Or is it sadistic? I have never bothered to learn the definitive
difference.
As we wound our way back toward home everyone seemed
contented; it had been a grand trip, one to be remembered. Nowadays we “breeze” north on I-5 from Salem,
Oregon, to do some errand in Portland and we are back home in a forenoon; but
in 1931, especially in the hills south of Tomah, fifty miles there and back was
more in proportion to a modern drive to Port Angeles, Washington, or say to
Walla Walla in the same state.
There is somewhat of a postscript which I am happy to
attach. When Dad brought home the car
that spring there was also a special present for our mother. As things developed, this new pair of shoes,
purchased in
I used to spend hours of leisure time gazing at those
distant hills to the south and to the west of our place. There were only a few times when I was
introduced to their secrets and treasures.
Somewhere not far south of Tomah was a legendary road over “Humbolt Hill”, but I have no memories of ever having
traveled that way. At the end of summer,
1935, there would be a fulfillment of sorts.
This, of course, was still in the distant future from 1931. By now you should have detected, I’ve had a
lifetime infatuation with “Trains, Tracks and Travel”. (mostly at a
distance). On a late summer day in 1935
Dad put me aboard the brand new “Hiawatha”, and I rode on that streamliner all
the way from New Lisbon, Wisconsin, into
This is, or was supposed to be, the story of Grandpa
Johnson. So far in this section there
seems to be no mention of him whatever.
It was Grandpa’s last summer. If
we had only known? That question carries
too many implications; but we had no foreknowledge and there were no
premonitions. However, had we known, I’m
sure we would have treasured those last months of his life.
1931 was a busy summer.
There was the usual tilling, planting, cultivating and harvesting. Over at Grandpa’s place there was the added
activity of rebuilding. I know we were
over there at times, but the memories did not last. There was so much at home that would be high
priority in our attention.
There was now a good car, and that spawned numerous trips
to various places. Previously such
excursions had been few and far between.
It’s safe to say, we made more casual trips to
On an occasion several neighbors had gathered at Grandpa’s
farmstead. This could have occurred
during that last season. Whether it was
a birthday or some other event, I am no longer certain. Some of the Kennedy’s were there and some of
the Fuzee’s had come.
Others had also stopped by. Maybe
it had to do with the building project.
I remember because it left a lasting impression. Wes and Marthee
Kennedy had brought their youngest son along.
Age wise Kenneth was close to me and to
Kenneth Kennedy was an idiot boy. His mental age had never developed beyond
that of a normal three, or four year old.
At the table he often used gestures rather than verbal
communication. He would make a few quick
jabs with his finger toward the beans or potatoes, and simultaneously that same
finger would reciprocate with the same quick jabs at his open mouth. He would be more than eager to begin
eating. Along with the gestures there
would be a vocal accompaniment somewhat in resemblance to the distant wail of a
yodeling coyote. Otherwise the boy talked
incessantly; well, he would try; but as he would go, salivating, spitting and
sputtering on his way, it took all kinds of imagination and guesswork to deduct
any meaning from his lingo.
In that locality and in those times “exceptional” people
of his category were often kept at home.
There were several besides Kenneth among our acquaintances. While the others may not have had problems
identical to the Kennedy boy, they were all handicapped in various degrees with
their individual difficulties. There was
Vesta Jones and there was Della Cady; there was Ervie Edwards and there was Bill Bauman. Along with these extreme cases there were a
number of “border line”: individuals, some of whom were in grade school with
the rest of us youngsters. “Marthee”, the boy’s mother was definitely what we,
nowadays, describe as a positive thinker.
She maintained high hopes that Kenneth would “grow out of it”, talk
about a mother’s love! She had sometimes
chided us boys, “You stop picking on Kenneth”!
But boys will be boys, and Chet and I were among the chief
offenders! Chester Fuzee
was “Chet’s” full name. I thought , as a
school boy, that Erna, Chet’s sister, was absolutely
the prettiest little girl that ever existed.
She was my age, and as I was a withdrawn and bashful kid, I don’t think
she ever “caught on”. And, of course,
with passing time my own ideas were subject to change. However Chet saw in his sister something a
bit different. He would tease, and
badger and quarrel with her until the kid would become desperate. In self-defense she would appeal to their
mother, “MA make
Chet and I often singled out Kenneth in our idle,
undisciplined moments. We both
understood; that was out of order.
But if we could go unobserved, it could make a difference! We would not be doing anything bad, and we
could still have fun! It was the easiest
thing in the world to frighten him, and we thought it hilariously funny to
scare the boy. That required no effort
at all. Sometimes we would ambush him,
maybe we would display an open jackknife.
The poor thing would howl with fear; he could make the most unearthly
sounds!
On this particular summer day at Grandpa’s, Chet and I had
Kenneth all to ourselves, fairly isolated behind that old farm house. At least that’s what we assumed. But Grandpa had gotten wind of what was up,
and this time it was he who had ambushed us!
We were caught, “cold turkey” in our harassments. He (Grandpa) did confront us, but he made no
“big deal” of the thing. And he had our
“eye contact.” He uttered just three
words, well emphasized, “Lee-if him Alone”. Whether or not, I have long forgotten if
these were the last words I ever heard from; but I am positive that the message
hit the target, and it’s been retained to this day. There was something of eternal value in that
rather small package. Grandpa obviously
had a concept of the meaning of decency.
1998 is on the Wane.
Less than two months remain and the holiday season will have become
history. (For this year). We will have entered the final year of the
twentieth century. We will also be
completing the final of 2000 years, AD.
I want to back up, say to the 1860's.
I agree, this is impossible. I
never saw light until 1920; but for the moment I freely admit, I am
fantasizing! I pretend to be in the cab
of an old coal-burning locomotive, similar to what Casey Jones died on in
1900. If I can get this old
“Armstrong Johnson bar” moved over onto the “reverse” position, I know we can
make it. There, we’re on our way. OK, I’ll snap out of it!
We are back in those horrible Civil War days. Remember, Grandpa Johnson was born about that
time. As near as we can tell it was
December, 1859 (based on Jan’s research) We hear the GI’s of that now distant
time. “We’re tenting tonight on the old
campground”, they are singing! - - -
“We’re tired of war and we wish ‘twould cease.
- - - Many are the hearts that are looking to the right, to see the dawn of
peace.” If it were humanly possible for
me, I would give full credit to every American soldier who died back then,
either “Blue” or “Gray”. They did it in
good faith. And I would desire as much
for all American soldiers who have since given the best of their lives for
their country. (This happens to be
November 11, 1998) It is so many years following
I will share one more memory surrounding Chet and Erna, his sister. As
with my step cousin,
The nucleus of this part of the story is that if Chet had
a sister, I also had one! If Chet and I
happened to be together, those two girls would also be amusing themselves,
probably not too far away. There are
memories of long winter evenings when the four of us would be together. Their old house was another of the “tar paper
specials”, but inside there was an old organ, the kind you “pumped” with foot
pedals. Chet was a real “Whiz” at
music. “By ear” he could get melodies
out of almost any instrument, and nearly everyone enjoyed listening. It was what you might call a natural talent,
or endowment.
Chet would get seated at the keyboard; call it the console
if you prefer, that could be a bit more impressive, or sophisticated. One of the pedals had become disconnected,
but by working the other at top speed, he could more than make up the
difference. The two grade school girls
and I would be standing about Chet and all four of us would be singing. “With all the stops out” we could at times
become quite dynamic! Some one wrote, “singing is as much an act of worship as
is prayer”! Try it; that can be very
true. I’m not saying that gospel hymns
were all we ever sang, but “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know” was a favorite. We did pretty well for a quartet of “just
kids”. And I am also saying, this was
truly a case of integration, or was it ecumenical? Fuzzes claimed to be Catholic, and Joe and Margie
Carr were from the Adventist side of the fence.
We decline to ask whether we were being Charismatic, that would extend
beyond my ability of comprehension. What
we knew: we were experiencing one of the finest forms of recreation, and we
were enjoying it. Enough said!
1998 - Just last Monday, I held in my hand a real source
of enjoyment. The calendar indicated
A former teacher used to tell us “when approaching an
assignment or a problem, don’t bite off more than you can chew”! That’s good advice. When confronted with, say, a steam locomotive,
you had best focus attention upon its “cowcatcher” or the ladder into its
cab. There I go again; do you call it
obsession?
I have tried to remember Joe Johnson in relation to the
last year of his life. That can be only
a portion of what he said and did in those 365 days. In the process I’m sure I am now just a little
better acquainted with him than I was back then. There are still other anecdotes from
preceding years. These are as clear
today as are my memories of his intervention on behalf of the idiot boy. If there is any interest at all, I am ready
to oblige in that direction; but I warn you, it’s going to “take time”! There is no way I could resume my efforts
within the present year.
- End of
Part C -
Also the
end of “1931" and its four parts.
Including
ramifications and subdivisions
Joseph M.
Carr
November
12. 1998
