FIVE
YEARS OLD
Interstates are the thing and we recognize that point of
no return comes early as we merge nonchalantly into the mainstream. Instinctively we seem to realize that to
falter is to court disaster. Because our
vehicle of narrative has already entered the access lane marked BIRTHDAYS, we
had best stay with it. In point of time,
however, we go back to the very first item on my resume, the day I rounded out
my first five years.
We were right in the midst of the roaring twenties. That, of course, was immaterial to a young
boy preschool age. About the only thing
that roared around our habitation were the thunderstorms and the downpours of
rain that came with them. True, there
were times when the wind could kick up quite a racket. Nights were generally dark and silent, save
for the ongoing symphony of the crickets sawing away on their tiny fiddles; but
that would be a bonus commensurate with living in the backwoods. We were isolated, far removed from the towns
and cities and their fast lane ways of doing things. In fact, it would be decades before that term
would even be coined. There was a
village, maybe three or four miles distant.
Just getting there and back could require a half a day. In making the journey, a traveler must
surmount the summit of Irma Hill, really a baby mountain of sorts. Irma, itself, was described as a wide place
in the road; there was a general store and that was about it. A north - south highway lay through this pass
between the hills; there was also a busy rail line. It was another ten or twelve miles south to
Merril, the really important town of the region; it could quite accurately be
described as a city.
Beyond another hill west of Irma flowed the
Otherwise, the country was wild. Many of the roads were only improved
trails. The wilderness seemed to stretch
beyond infinity. There were distant
hills and there were low intervening ridges.
Heavy precipitation, both summer and winter, gravitated from the higher
areas to settle in the numerous swamps, sort of a holding process.
There were young forests; and individual trees, both
evergreen and deciduous, protruded from the dense undergrowth. The big logging shows and sawmill operations
were history. Many of their traces were
either obliterated or otherwise lost in that impenetrable tangle of vegetation. Small woods operations were still apparent;
logs were still being piled high at the landings adjacent to rail sidings. Pulpwood industry seemed to dominate the
local economy.
Our cabin stood near the edge of the obvious
background. We were well surrounded with
shade; this meant we were also supplied with abundant firewood, a free source
of heat during the long winter. Wood
also supplied the heat in our mother’s cook stove. The cabin must have been rather small, but
such items are taken for granted by young children. I can’t remember all that much about the
stove. There is extant in my memory a
scene - my father removing ashes through the open door of an otherwise cold
heater, and sure enough, two stoves would certainly be prerequisite to the
severely cold climate.
The building was new; having been build only the previous
fall. The logs of which its sides and
ends were formed had been harvested from the clearing in which it stood. It had been erected with dispatch. Time was the essence in anticipation of the
prolonged months ahead. Never had any of
us encountered the phrase commonly used nowadays, “wind chill factor”. Believe it, we were fully oriented and conditioned
to the reality of sub zero temperature and the icy blasts or arctic wind.
It seems that the bark at this cabin was left on the logs,
save for the notches near the ends and at other places where they needed
dressing in order to fit. I was
fascinated by the process of construction, the first time in my young life when
I was conscious of such activity. Now at
this point I may be dreaming, but it does seem that while the framing of the
roof was being positioned that my dad took me way up to the peak at the far
end. From there I could look down at the
ground, so distant from that point of view.
I don’t remember the “chinks”, or the caulking, which closed the cracks
between the logs. As noted, things had
been put together in a hurry. There was
a partition across the middle of the floor plan, probably makeshift. The door to the outside faced the north.
I do not remember the source of our domestic water. It could have included what plumbers and well
diggers of the day called a “drive point”.
“Well diggers” is correct; many wells of the time and region were
excavated by hand. Just beginning to
observe things as a child, I was really captivated by those drive points. They worked fairly well when driven into
substrata of gravel and water. They were
sometimes forced into the ground beneath the floor of the building. This would not only be convenient but also
protected from the damaging deep freeze of winter. The pump itself would be activated by muscle
power applied directly to a reciprocating handle. Working that handle up and down was a great
pastime for young boys and girls, except when they were assigned the task; it
could then grow old in a hurry!
This pump, if installed inside, would be the extent of our
indoor plumbing. Movement of water was
strictly a matter of pails, kettles, or whatever. And then there were times when dishpans,
washbasins, or anything available must be positioned in a hurry. Heavy down pours of rain had a way of
dripping through the roof. Imagine being
shocked out of slumber by sudden pitter platter splashing on your face!
Upon occasion, Dad would transport water in larger
quantities. At such times, he would
requisition the wash boiler and fill it at a ditch beside the road through a
nearby swamp. A “boiler” was designed to
sit atop the kitchen range on laundry days.
It would cover two of the griddles.
Often these lids were removed to allow more direct contact between the
fire and the water. This system was time
consuming; it also added to the discomfort of excessive heat in summer. As a lad I observed the beads of sweat on my
mother’s forehead, not just a few times.
There remain but few survivors who were acquainted with her. Any such witnesses would agree; she was a
good woman, and she worked “awful hard”.
We had better get back to that wash boiler before its precious burden is
entirely lost through evaporation. This
tub-like affair was somewhat oval shaped; yet its sides were straight and
parallel. It was relatively long and
narrow, and also quite deep in its proportions.
If manufactured of copper it could become a very prized piece of utility. These containers were even fitted with a lid,
and they adapted nicely to available space in and on Dad’s Model T. On the sort rough trip home there would be
considerable loss through splashing, but it sure beat pumping all of that water
by hand!
To the day of his death my father could never understand
why a man should submit to all that hard work when there were easier ways. There will be more about him, I give you my
word. He was a good dad; I was most
fortunate to have him, not only as a parent, but as a close companion and
friend. I still miss him and he has been
gone a full twenty-five years (1977). In
1925 my two younger brothers were not yet “on the drawing board”, Bill would
arrive in 1930, and it would be another seven years before our youngest, Bob,
would complete the roster. Margie, our
sister, would by then by fifteen, quite grown up, high heels and all.
During my fifty-second year Dad left us quite suddenly,
and it came as a shock. I know my
brothers missed him every bit as much as I did, for as a father he had done his
best to share equal time. I would defer
any comment on my sister’s behalf; I think she would far rather bear her own
testimony. By this time she had mothered
six boys and girls of her own. Dad died
at the steering wheel of his new
At our cabin in the pines an open meadow lay at the edge
of the woods. “Pines” is a neat sounding
name; actually there was an extensive variety of conifers and deciduous
trees. In nice weather with our cabin
door swung fully open there was a pleasing view of this broad hay field. Across this expanse on a moderate elevation
stood a set of farm buildings. This wild
country could be deceptive. Farmsteads
were scattered at random in some of the most unexpected locations. This one lay at the end of the tire tracks
leading into and through the aforementioned swamp and past our area. We were favored to have farm neighbors. Many of these ambitious farming operations
had already been abandoned, not being given back to Native Americans, but
rather being repossessed by the wild country itself.
There was another aspect to our home sweet home and I
don’t know how best to describe it. As
previously stated, there was no water system, not as specified by today’s
building codes. Also, the use of
electricity was virtually non-existent in those rural regions. It seems that Dad had a most fascinating
flashlight activated by dry cells. His
Model T no doubt had headlights, which could respond in a rather uncertain
manner. Therefore our house had no
bathroom. As children our bathing was
done in the big galvanized tub, which also served as laundry equipment. The water would be warmed on the kitchen
stove. While the tub was ordinarily
round it still sat safely on the stove.
Some folks even had a specially designed heater known as a laundry
stove. Rest assured, the tub would be
returned to the security of the floor.
The kids would then be permitted to dive in; they do have an affinity
for water.
There are other functions of a bathroom, which all
law-abiding citizens recognize. At our
place there was no doubt a very small building, probably somewhere behind the
house. This installation remains blank
so far as I am concerned. And there was
also an indoor convenience. In today’s
parlance young children still make known their need of the “pottie”. In those backwoods days the older ones, both
adolescents and on up, had their own personalized service as well. It would be shoved neatly out of sight, well
under the bed - privacy, you know; secret service, whatever. And this service had its negative qualities
as well; all liquid substances tend to be sloppy. More than that, even when fitted with a lid,
traces of the odor were still inescapable.
But really, during those long, frigid nights any available alternative
would have been downright inhuman.
Seemingly the announced feature, my birthday, has been
conveniently forgotten, but that is not exactly true. Keeping those distant mental impressions
organized is a problem and to remain in close proximity to the subject is an
added challenge. Looking back I have no
other explanation. It is because of a
mother’s love for her young children that the day stands out so clearly. The event had to be far more significant to
her than it was to me. Actually it was a
simple affair, but it was a party and it was special.
My childhood playmate, Willie, was there. Only during the coldest and most ferocious
weather would we be found in our separate homes. One of the greatest things in life is when
young boys can be together. Whether they
be brothers at home, or if they be neighbors, whether they be exploring and
discovering, or talking and laughing between themselves, or hard at play, young
boys and girls really thrive on that companionship. Willie was the youngest of rural family
across the meadow. Besides him and
myself, my young sister was present, still in her third year. As already noted there was also my mother.
Another feature of that day to remember was food. Physical nutrition is often more appealing at
specified times than it is on a day-to-day perspective. It is entirely possible that repetitious food
items, (potatoes, gravy, bread and beans, bacon and eggs) can take on new life
and meaning induced by a change of scenery or by the presence of the people
with whom we are brought together. Our
mom seldom brought home bread or pastry when returning from her infrequent
trips to town. My birthday cake that day
would be what is nowadays “made from scratch”.
It would have been “devil’s food”. That is what she ‘most always
baked. Not only was that my favorite; it
probably fit my emerging character perfectly!
I used to be stimulated at any time, and day, by that fragrance drifting
from her oven. But upon this special
gathering, boy, that dark brown single layer with its thick covering of
“frosting” flavored with cocoa; never again would it seem that delicious!
Also a certain table had been set up for this
celebration. It was small and it was
light. It was made entirely of wood
except for the hinges, which allowed it to fold for easy storage. It could not have been more than twenty
inches wide and I’m sure its length did not exceed three feet. Our mother called it her sewing table. Until I was away for any extended time, that
little table was always around. It was
one of my favorite attractions, and it served its purpose well. In later years the screws began to loosen and
it became rather wobbly on its legs. At
seventy-seven my own underpinning is beginning to respond in a like manner.
So that is what my party was like on
As for my young friend Willie, we were often together
during the few months my family lived there.
After we moved away I do not recall that I was ever back to see
him. Except for this one note of
sadness, my birthday party on that day I turned five is a cherished memory, one
which I would never choose to relinquish.
