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These stories were published in a magazine called Happy Hobbies,
1969-1982, which was written and distributed by Thelma Sutton and Mrs.
Martin, who were best of friends for many years until the death of Mrs.
Martin.
Little Mary Catherine lost her mother when she was
one year old, on her birthday, and was raised by a stepmother. She
was such a little thing that her father nicknamed her "Tiny". Her
father, who was a "horse and buggy" doctor, died when she was sixteen.
From then on she "worked out" in various homes in the area until she married
Will, who was a handsome Corporal in the United States Army.
Mama was always one to make do with whatever she
had and when she started keeping her own house, she had a second hand wood
cook stove, a gallon syrup pail, two tin cups, two knives, forks and spoons.
One year later, when the first child was born, her home was adequately,
if not luxuriously furnished, and absolutely spotless. Six years
from the wedding, I was born, the fourth child of a family of nine.
Since I was the first girl and mama was an expert needleworker, my clothes
were adorned with much embroidery, laces and ruffles. What a relief
it must have been to get away from the traditional blue shirts and overalls,
even tho' boys then wore dresses until age three or four years.
As soon as she was dressed in the morning, mama
combed her long straight hair. To do this, she bent over with her
hair almost touching the floor, combed it out straight and twisted and
coiled it deftly into a "bun" tucking the straggly ends underneath and
pinning it down securely with wire and celluloid hairpins. Next she
cleaned the hair out of the comb, deftly wrapped it around her finger,
then dropped the little curl in the "hair receiver" to be used when enough
was accumulated, to stuff a pin cushion. The whole process took less
than two minutes. No matter the work for the day, she never had
untidy hair. At the day's end, she took out the pins and let it fall,
then made a long braid down her back. It was my delight to comb it
then, and "do it up" in a variety of stylish ways. But it always
cam back to the bun in the day time and braid at night.
Then to the kitchen for breakfast...but that's another
story.
My Mom Continued
Mama always dressed before she came out of her bedroom
in the morning. No slopping around in a housecoat (she didn't even
own one) and slippers at the breakfast table. Breakfast at our house
was as much a meal as any other. No dashing off with only a cup of
coffee, or gulping down a glass o some magic brew, guaranteed to have all
the vitamins needed for the day. Instead, we all sat down to the
table at once, each in his regular place, bowed our heads and waited until
papa "asked the blessing" before giving our attention to the big bowl of
steaming oatmeal before us. Then the big white pitcher of thick yellow
cream was passed around, thick slices of homemade bread and fresh yellow
butter, apple butter or jelly, and a tall glass of milk completed the meal.
Once in awhile we would have cream of wheat, but most times it was "Mother's
Oats". Two older brothers sometimes took turns at getting breakfast.
One was a good cook but the other always burned the oatmeal. He always
had an "accident" and it was years later that we discovered he did it on
purpose because he liked it better that way. Oranges were something
you found in your stocking at Christmas and not a common food they are
today.
Mama set a good table. There were no fancy
dishes but good hearty food and plenty of it. No one ever thought
of saying they didn't like certain things. It was on the table to
eat and we ate it without complaint.
Although she was probably not aware that she was
teaching us, I can still see mama and her special way of doing things.
I can see her set down a crock of sweet milk, cool from the cellar, and
run her finger around the sides to loosen the cream, then with a big ladle,
spoon that sweet thick goodness into the big white pitcher. And the
way she could put a pie together! I've never been able to duplicate
it. She rolled out her ball of dough from the middle in all directions,
using a much worn rolling pin that papa made for her when they were married.
With a table knife, she made a leaf design in the middle, flipped one half
over the other and slid it deftly onto the waiting pie, unfolded it and
how her fingers flew when she fluted the edges together, then trimmed off
the excess dough.
Mama knew very little about her family. Her
mother died when she was one year old. About all she knew about her
father's family was that they were natives of Switzerland. Against
his will, her father was educated to be a Catholic priest and as soon as
he come of age, he rebelled and ran away. He came to America where
he studied to become a doctor. He never spoke of his family and,
as far as mama knew, had no contact with any of them.
He was an old fashioned country doctor, a general
practitioner who served many miles of scattered families over the countryside,
besides at least seven small towns. Sometimes he would let mama go
with him on a call and these were very special occasions. At that
time there were no telephones and someone usually rode in by horseback
for the doctor, and he would grab his medicine case, hurriedly hitch the
team to his buggy and take off. No matter that it was noon and he
had not eaten, no matter if it was in the middle of the night, or that
he had just returned from a sleepless all night vigil. A doctor,
in those days, was truly a public servant and was friend and confidante
to all. He was always expected to eat with whatever family he was
serving at meal time.
More often than not, his fee, if paid at all, was
seasonable produce. It might be turnips, grapes, potatoes, cabbage,
onions, peaches, eggs, chickens, fresh or cured meats, sorghum, or anything
else a farmer raises. Once he even brought home a beautiful black
and white St. Bernard pup that grew into a very large dog, almost a member
of the family. Mama told about one trip she made with him when the
buggy bed back of the seat was full of apples. Roads were narrow
and, in turning out to let another rig pass, the buggy slid off onto the
edge of a steep ditch. It did not tip over, nor did they spill out,
but the apples did. They had nothing to carry them in so mama gathered
them up in her "dress tail" and carried them all back up that steep ditch
to the buggy. After trip after trip she, no doubt, thought his pay
for that day was really sufficient. She thought there were several
bushels of them!
Dr. Welte had a team of beautiful well matched sorrels
named Molly and Seal. They were devoted to their master and many
times they were given the reins and carried him home after a sleepless
all night vigil. Once when a blizzard cam up in the night and snow
still swirling madly out of the north, the doctor, exhausted and half frozen,
was brought safely to his door by his faithful team. After his death,
they were never the same again but became vicious and unmanageable.
The Country Doctor
The Little Black Bag
Dr. Welte always carried a small black medicine case
whenever he was called to someone's sick bed. It was filled with
very small bottles and vials which he kept filled, in case of an emergency
that called for haste. It opened in the middle and had a partition
which was hinged, so that there were four sides, covered with the little
life saving bottles, each in its own place, and labeled with strange sounding
and hard to pronounce names.
On these trips he might drive Molly and Seal several
miles to treat his patient. Once there, he dispensed the little pellets,
powders or drops with very careful instructions. Most homes did not
have a medicine dropper, so he would hold the cork against the neck of
the bottle to drop the exact amount.
no call was ever turned down, no plea ever ignored,
day or night, in good weather or bad. How excited mama would be when
she saw him coming from his office when it wasn't mealtime. She knew
he would be going to the barn to harness the team and hitch them to the
buggy Then she would just happen to be in the barn
when he got there, waiting breathlessly for him to notice her and say "Kate,
I have to go to Elmdale (or Cottonwood Falls, or one of the other small
towns her served). Would you like to go with me?" Before he
finished talking , she was on her way to the house, running as fast as
her little legs would carry her, to get the necessary permission.
He was one of the kindest fathers ever and tried to be both father and
mother to her.
The doctor loved children and always carried a bottle
of sugar pills in his case to give a little sister or brother who was not
sick but who might have felt slighted at the lack of attention. Sometimes
they would lean on his knee rubbing their stomach and stick out their tongues.
And he was never impatient with one of these little ones, even when sometimes
there would be two or three of them.
But Grandfather Welte believed in discipline.
His own children were taught to mind and it distressed him greatly when
a small patient refused to take the prescribed medicine. I remember
mama telling about one child he was so worried about and who died, in spite
of all he could do. Later he told her there was no need for her to
die, that she should have been well in a few days, but she was so spoiled
she wouldn't take the medicine he left for her, and her parents, who denied
her nothing, would not make her.
The doctor himself died at the comparatively young
age. The spring he was sixty-six was a late cold wet spring, with
ice and snow. In early March he took a severe cold and was fighting
pneumonia. Answering a call when he had a high fever himself was
too much for him. He was buried on mama's seventeenth birthday, and
the world lost a great humanitarian and a good doctor.
After grandpa Welte's death on mama's seventeenth
birthday mama was never made welcome at home any more. Her two older
brothers had already left home to work, and there was now a half brother
and sister. Her step-mother no doubt, reasoned that was enough for
a widow to raise alone. doctors were not well off in those times
since there was little money at best and I have often wondered how she
managed, since she never remarried. So mama "worked out". During
the busy season she was paid enough to take care of her personal needs,
and during slack times, she "worked for her board", sometimes for Mrs.
Kirk and sometimes for Aunt Lizzie Harsh or others.
These were lonely times for a teenager and the work
was always hard. But she learned much about homemaking, cooking,
sewing, and how to make-do with little. many are the stories she
used to tell about her experiences of those next few years. There
was the old skin-flint who was so stingy he always inspected the garbage
before he carried it out to the pig-pen. Once he found a whole slice
of bread and he raised such a fuss and made his wife take it out of the
slop bucket. mama never did say what they did with it but after that
when any food was to be thrown out, they made sure he wasn't anywhere near,
and gave it to the chickens or dogs. He milked several cows and the
mild had to be skimmed by hand and the cream was sold. His family
ate skimmed milk on their cereal, never any cream, and every egg was accounted
for.
But there were fun times too. Transportation
was limited to horseback or horse and buggy. Almost every Saturday
night there was a gathering at the school house. Benches were pushed
back against the walls and someone struck up a lively tune on his "fiddle"
with maybe some harmonicas, and everyone would take their places for a
square dance. young and old joined in the fu, sometimes until early
morning. The benches would be full of the very young, long since
bored with the grown ups fun.
O how hard it was to get up the next morning, especially
if the party had been on a week day, and the next day's work meant rising
before dawn. once when there were peaches to can, mama couldn't hold
her eyes open and fell to nodding over the pan of peaches she was peeling.
Expecting a stern reprimand, she was surprised when Aunt Lizzie told her
to go lie down for a short nap. Any strenuous exercise such as playing
ball, was frowned on as Sunday afternoon entertainment, and the young people
loved to go buggy riding, with maybe a picnic after church. Popular
was the young man with his own horse and buggy - he always had his pick
of the girls.
Aunt Lizzy was no relation but she was always "Aunt
Lizzie" to everyone. She was a real friend to mama and "took her
in" many times when she had no job to go to. She and Uncle Sam had
no children and lived in a big white house about a mile from town.
At least it seemed like a big house for it had two spare bedrooms.
Aunt Lizzie was plump and spry, and always in complete command of any situation
she found herself in - also of Uncle Sam, who always seemed to have a look
of tolerance under his mustache and white hair. He never talked much
but Aunt Lizzie always had plenty to say on any topic of conversation.
they were loved and respected by the whole community.
It was in 1898, in October when papa and mama were
married. Papa and his brother, Howard, were volunteers in the standing
army. Papa came home on furlough and Kate surprised him by saying
"yes" to his often repeated proposal. they were a handsome couple,
mama with her straight black hair and skin the color of thick cream.
Her brown eyes were deep set and at times were almost black. She
was slight of build and light on her feet, and very beautiful. Will
also cut a dashing figure in his army uniform with his corporal stripes,
his thick brown hair and mustache and his sparkling blue eyes, and his
little one-sided grin. He was a very patient man who always brought
home his pay check and gave it to mama, who as a genius at making a dollar
go a long way.
A Second Hand Stove (I apologize if any language or description of persons found in this section that may be offensive, but I have published the story exactly as it was written. No prejudice is intended in anyway. David Sutton)
How many times I have heard mama tell about that
first start at house keeping. They had a second hand wood cook stove
(given to them by Aunt Lizzy when she got a new one), a gallon syrup pail,
2 tin plates and spoons. No bridal showers in those days, but the
wedding presents of their friends soon added many necessary things.
I can still remember some of the cherished dishes and glassware, most of
which has long since disappeared, victim of nine pairs of clumsy hands
in the dish pan, each in his turn as the family grew. Still in the
family is a clear crystal fruit bowl with a stem, cherished now by a granddaughter,
and brought out only on very special occasions.
Papa's sister Nettie and her husband were operating
a boarding house hotel and that is where they moved their meager possessions
to begin housekeeping until papa got out of the army. A year later
a little boy was born, and from then on it was two more boys and a girl
in less than five years. After her three boys, mama must have been
happy when I turned out to be a girl. Little boys wore dresses in
those days until it was time to go to school and mama was always one for
ruffles and frills. What a task it must have been just to keep the
washing and ironing done.
After the second child was born in 1900, papa took
a job with the government as a teacher in an Indian school in Nebraska,
where their third little boy was born. Later he was sent to Dakota
where he was Agent on the Standing Rock Reservation, where he worked with
the Sioux Indians. His duties were teaching them to farm, keeping
law and order, and issuing rations of food and clothing from the government.
And that's how I came to be born on an Indian Reservation.
Ours was the only white family in the whole area
and sometimes it would be weeks without anyone mama could talk to.
It was a very lonely life for her. Papa's work took him away from
home much of the time, looking after those under his care. Although
the Indians were friendly as a rule, they did not speak English and it
was hard to make friends with them. They had no respect for a door
and unless it was locked, they walked right in any time of day or night.
Once when mama was scrubbing the floor, she turned around to find a woman
sitting cross legged on the wet floor behind her. She had heard no
sound and she never did forget how frightened she was, even though the
woman meant no harm. Papa had a half breed boy as an interpreter,
but mama had to depend on sign language.
The women did beautiful beadwork and mama learned
a lot from them. They decorated everything they could with beads
- moccasins, gloves, vests, saddlebags, pipe stems and war club handles
- anywhere they could fasten them. Their designs and colors were
very artistic. More about this next time.
When an Indian woman had a baby, she had no modern
conveniences. She had a stout stake or post set solidly in the ground
and when her time had come, she braced her feet, grasped the post and pulled.
then she took care of herself and the baby, often without any help at all.
It was all in a days work - no big deal - and she went about her regular
duties the same as usual. Once a woman came frantically to get mama
when a tiny baby was having a convulsion. Mama told her to go back
and get a tub and put a lot of water to heat. As soon as she could
fix her own little brood so it would be safe to leave us, she hurried to
the scene, just as they were about ot lower the poor baby into a tub of
water so hot it would surely have been the end of its convulsions!
Often the women would bring mama gifts, but she
soon learned that the giver always expected a gift in return. It
would be an insult to refuse the gift, and they soon learned that she loved
their handwork, so she acquired many pieces of beautiful beadwork.
Once a woman came wearing a colorful hand woven blanket, which she took
off and offered her. Mama asked her what she wanted in return and
she said a dozen eggs! Mama tried to persuade her that the blanket
was worth much more but she insisted she wanted twelve eggs, no more, no
less, and was very insulted when mama tried to give her more. that
blanket is still in the family, much smaller as it frayed around the edges
from tucking in mama's babies throughout the years, and some of the grand
babies. After all, that was almost eighty years ago.
Mama often told us about the climate in South Dakota
winters. Once when papa had to go to a distant part of the reservation,
he left instructions with a half-breed boy to keep wood and water supplied
and outdoor chores taken care of. Mama was inexperienced at banking
a fire and that night it went out. Bundling up in all the wraps she
had, even gloves and overshoes, she finally got a fire going. The
water in the kitchen bucket was frozen solid, but she didn't know until
papa came home that it was 40 [degrees] below zero that night. It
must have been quite a task with four babies to keep under the covers while
the house warmed up.
Papa came home the next day. He had been called
out to settle a dispute between two half breeds and when he got there,
the quarrel had already been taken care of and papa had a dead Indian in
the back of his spring wagon. The Indians seldom gave him any trouble
but the half breeds were a vicious lot, and entirely undependable.
Too many babies had taken toll of mama's health.
Added to the hard work and loneliness, it was too much for her, and papa
thought it best to get her back to her own people. So when I was
about two they cam back to Kansas, closing another chapter in their lives.
Mama always wore an apron. It wasn't one of
these little hankie sized ones that tie around the waist, but was of ample
size to perform all the many and varied duties required of it. It
had a bib and straps over the shoulders and crossed in the back and buttoned
at the waist on each side. the skirt was almost as long as her dress
and covered the front and sides, protecting a clean dress for several days
wear. Most of them were trimmed all around with ric rac and the big
pocket on one or both sides had it's own special function. When mama
came into the kitchen in the morning she took her apron from a nail by
the stairway and slipped it over her head, as she hurried across the bare
board floor of our big kitchen to the big wood cook stove, which provided
us with both heating and cooking power. Papa or on of the boys already
had a fire started for breakfast. The last thing she did at night,
after the long days work was done, was to take off the apron and hang it
back on its nail. But, O, what a busy day it had been through since
morning!
It was used to dry tears of an unhappy little one,
to lift a hot skillet or pan from the glowing stove, or the stove-lid lifter,
to put in another stick of wood from the big wood-box behind the stove.
And if the fire was sluggish and stubborn as wood fires often are, she
might just run to the wood pile and gather up an apron full of chips to
hurry it up a bit.
Sometimes when the weather was a little cool, she
would gather up her apron and roll it around her hands and arms for warmth.
Many is the time it covered a wee one in her lap when she nursed it.
When she went to the garden "just to see how it was growing" she always
came back with something she had found ready to eat. In the early
spring it might be a mess of greens, held securely by gathering up the
bottom of her apron to make a peck-sized container. It might be a
few windfall apples, or the first ripe peaches, a mess of rhubarb, asparagus,
or wither onions.
If an old Rhode Island Red hen had stolen her nest
somewhere along the garden's edge, the apron might hold a dozen or so big
brown eggs. When there were baby chicks, it might be some that got
caught in a sudden shower. (I s there anything uglier than a wet
chick?) Then they were wrapped in an old blanket and put in a shoe-box
on the oven door, where they were soon warm and dry and cheeping to go
back to the old hen, again carried in the apron. It was just the
thing, too, to shoo an inquisitive old rooster out of the garden
or the flower bed. In a few days we will be honoring Mothers with
their special Day. There are so many memories of my mom, and what
a lot of them are tied up with the strings of that old apron!
Monday was traditionally wash-day, not just at our
house, but all over the country. After the Saturday night bath, our
big wicker basket was overflowing with dirty clothes. Mama sure hated
dirty clothes. So, on Monday morning before the boys went to school,
the wash boiler was filled with water and heating on the big wood range.
Then the reservoir on the end of the range where the fire box was, next
at least three tubs and many buckets of water were brought in from the
well.
Many women went all out to be the first in the neighborhood
to hang clothes on the line. That mattered little mama, but what
did matter was that her white clothes be their whitest possible.
I'm sure we, at times, had hand turned washing machines. In fact
I remember one in particular. It had a wooden tub and a three legged
dolly fastened to the lid, which was supposed to swish out the dirt when
turned one hundred times by an unwilling boy or girl. I must have
been just about the right size to operate it because it isn't anything
I recall with any joy! I still remember how tempted I used to be
to run away and hide.
But for the most part mama's washing was all done
on the wash board. First they were sorted into piles on the kitchen
floor - baby clothes in the first batch, then table cloths, sheets, white
shirts, and on down through the colored clothes and last the overalls.
Each batch was "put to soak" in a tub of warm water, by rubbing them with
a bar of P & G soap, then after they had soaked a few minutes, they
were sudsed out and put in the boiler, where a bar of soap had been shaved.
They boiled several minutes, stirred briskly several times with the "clothes
stick", and old broom handle kept for that purpose. It was also used
to lift them out of the boiler into a tub of clean water, where they got
a good scrubbing on the wash board. Wringing was done by hand of
course, and by the time they went through a tub of rinse water and another
of blue water, they had been wrung by hand four times. Now that I
think of it, I don't remember anyone ever complaining of arthritis in their
hands - wonder if there is any connection!
The big wicker clothes basket was oval shape and
had a handle on each end and I started helping hang out clothes before
I was big enough to reach from one to the other. First all the clothes
lines had been washed off with a sudsy rag. I think every housewife
had her own way of putting her clothes on the line, and a certain place
to hang them. On the front line, the one next the street, with the
baby clothes, diapers, sheets and pillow-cases. Next came dish towels,
wash rags, etc. Right in the middle, went the underwear. No
self respecting mother would hang her family's underwear right out where
everyone could see it! Colored clothes went on the back line, and
finally the overalls.
When evening came, the big basket was fitted with
a clean paper and used to "bring in the clothes, before they get damp".
This was most often my job. They were piled high on mama's bed, and
had to be folded and put away before bed time. What a sweet smell
our sheets had that Monday night. Maybe you can't actually smell
sunshine, but there just isn't another smell in the world quite like that
of fresh sun and wind dried bed sheets! Remember?
Papa made much of our furniture, learned, no doubt,
from his father and grandfather. We still have several pieces made
form native cherry, by these early day craftsmen. Papa made mostly
utility things, like our long dining table. When the family outgrew
it, the simply took off the top and put on a longer one. It was always
covered with a white oilcloth, and mama lamented the fact that it was not
practical to use a snowy tablecloth for everyday, because, she said, her
family would get careless in their eating habits. There was always
a long bench, the length of the table, and after the meal, the table was
pushed back against the wall, over the bench, to leave more floor space
in the big kitchen, where most of the family activities centered.
And always there was a high chair.
On washday, this bench was pulled out and used to
hold the three big wash tubs. Since Monday was wash-day, of course
Tuesday was ironing day. Papa made the ironing board too. It
had no legs but the wide end rested on the table and the tapered end on
the back of a chair. It was padded with old blanket, covered with
a piece of old sheet, tacked to the back.
Monday night, mama piled the starched clothes on
the table and sprinkled them one at a time, by dipping her hand in a pan
of warm water and shaking the droplets evenly of the garment. They
were then rolled tightly so the dampness would penetrate, laid close together
in the big wicker basket for the next day's ironing. The iron set
was quite modern for those days. It consisted of three irons and
one handle, which covered the iron and was fastened on by a little clasp
with a wooden knob. It was considered a big improvement over the
older style sad irons, because it kept some of the heat from the hands.
Two irons would be heating while one was in use. In winter the wood
range furnished the heat and in the hottest summer we used a kerosene stove.
The cold iron was always set on the left, pushing the hot one to the right,
where it was picked up with the handle, wiped carefully on a cloth into
which a chunk of paraffin had been folded, to make it slide easily.
It always seemed to me there were dozens of blue
chambray shirts every week, and how I hated to iron them! I always
started with the tail, which was held out of the starch water, then if
the iron was too hot, the scorch didn't show. Mama had a keen sense
of humor and once, just to get even with one the boys for a joke he had
played on her, she starched the whole shirt. Now, there was no such
thing as summer underwear for the boys and that stiff and starchy shirt-tail
was a mighty uncomfortable experience. Her "revenge" was complete.
"Mama can I take off my long underwear? All
the other kids are." Just such a day as I am writing this, that would
be what mama heard when we come bursting through the kitchen door after
school. We almost knew what her answer would be. "Mercy no!
Winter isn't over just because there's sunshine today." All the teasing
and coaxing couldn't change her mind. Summer was still a long way
off and anyone who dared to take their long underwear off was sure to "catch
your death of cold". That was a favorite expression of mama's.
It was never just a plain "you'll catch cold" but always that dire pronouncement
"you'll catch your DEATH of cold."
And so . . . we continued to try our best to smooth
out those hated long legs, with a minimum of bumps where they were folded
over at the ankles. It was easier for the boys, covered with overall
legs, the bumps didn't show quite so much. Over this, we still had
to pull on the long black ribbed cotton stockings. These were held
up by elastic garters, two to each stocking, with a sort of hook that fastened
to the tops, the other end fastened to a "panty waist". This was
a harness like garment with straps that went over the shoulders and around
the waist. It did double duty by also holding up our panties in the
summertime. Big white bone buttons were sewn on the waist band, to
which our panties were buttoned.
Those panties were another story. I was in
High School before I ever had a pair of "store bought" panties. Mama,
and all the other mamas I knew, made them from bleached flour sacks.
There are many humorous stories about the letters that didn't bleach out,
and the little girls with "Hail's Best" or some such caption on the seat.
But not mama's little girls! If the letters didn't bleach out, she
cut around them, or used them for dish towels. (and, incidentally,
bought a different brand of flour the next time).
Later in the Spring when the sun had warmed the
earth, we were allowed to "go barefooted". O, the indescribable,
heavenly feel of that first time we put a bare foot tentatively on the
fresh warm earth! how gingerly we tried out the garden path on feet
bleached and tender from their long winter's imprisonment! And from
that day on, we hardly saw our shoes except on Sunday. Sunday school
became a long and painful ordeal if we happened to have a cut or stubbed
toe. As the summer wore on, or feet became tough and brown - the
only bad part of it being the scrubbing they must have every night before
we went to bed. And woe to that one who tried to sneak past the waiting
foot tub. of water sitting on the kitchen floor, soap dish and "foot-rag"
beside it. Mama didn't actually have eyes in the back of her head
but she surely did have a sixth sense!
When we were teenagers we used to have "play-outs"
on Saturday nights. From all over town the kids would come to a vacant
lot or someone's big yard and play games. On moonlit nights we would
play until a parent came and broke up the fun. Mama always kept a
tight vigil on these play-outs. Although she wasn't there, somehow
she always knew when someone got out of line, or anything happened that
she disapproved of. And the word spread - if it happened again we
couldn't have any more. Every kid knew enough to see that it didn't
happen. Mama would spread the word to some of the other mothers and
the next time there just wouldn't be enough kids there.
We had a lot of games to play and mostly they were
group games that everyone could play. Who remembers the game of "shinny"?
That one was strictly a boy's game and no girl would ever risk being called
tomboy by playing it. The boys were always on the lookout for a good
shinny stick. It must have been the fore-runner of the present golf
stick. It was just a small tough limb with a knot on the end of it.
Instead of a ball to hit, the players used an old tin can when they could
find one. Strange as it may seem, tin cans were not a common thing
in those days. Lacking one, a block of wood was a good substitute,
and a whole lot safer. Sides were chosen up and there was one or
more goal lines but beyond that, I don't remember much about it, except
that it was a rough and lively one.
Then there was "Last Couple Out". The players
formed a column of pairs. "It" then called "Last couple out" and
the object was for the last couple to run to the front of the column without
being tagged by "It". As soon as they took their place in front,
they called "Last couple out" and the last couple tried to make it to the
front without being tagged. Both boys and girls played this game
- nobody ever won but it just went on and on until the bell rang or someone
got tired of it and broke ranks. It was a good game for fellas and
their girls to pair off together.
Blackman was another game of choosing up sides.
"It" tried to tag any player who tried to leave his base and run to the
other side. Or did you ever play statue? "It" would take each
player in turn by the arm and whirl him around and when he stopped, he
must keep the position he stopped in, until all the players had been positioned.
Then, "It" would chose which one was the best statue and he became "It".
Mama always felt easier when she had her family
around her where she could keep an eye on all our activities. In
cold or rainy weather, we played card games. Old Maid, Authors, or
Flinch. You can be sure there were no playing card in mama's house
- they were a forbidden evil. I remember once when I found one blowing
across the road in front of our house and I showed it to mama, thinking
she would appreciate its colors, but she asked, in that tone of voice she
used when she was very displeased, "Where did you get that?" And
lifting up the stove lid, she commanded me to throw it into the fire at
once. Sometimes we played checkers or dominoes. The boys had
tops, and almost every Christmas on or more of them got a gyroscope top,
then what fun it was to see it spin across the room on a string and do
all sorts of crazy things.
Then there were my dolls. Although I never
did have a big expensive doll like some of the other girls had, I loved
mine and played with them as though they were real children. One
in particular was a celluloid baby doll. She was jointed at the hips
and shoulders and her head turned. I loved her very much and used
to dream that some day she would come to life and I would have a real live
baby. Mama has often told me about when I was very small - I don't
remember it except hearing her tell it - I had, in all 15 dolls.
Some were very tiny ones and some very old and well worn, but in all there
were fifteen. One night I put them all to bed, then when I knelt
at mama's knee for my bedtime prayer, I asked God to please make all my
dolls come to life that night. That was on prayer I'm real sure mama
was thankful the answer was "no"!
Have you ever wished you could go back in time for
just a day and live over some beautiful memory in your past? If so,
what age would you choose? How about a day in early summer when you
were ten? Would it be possible to recapture that delicious feeling
that came when you waded through the grass in the early morning and felt
its dew dampened coolness on your bare feet? And maybe turn a "somersaultt"
and run around the house three times for no reason at all except the pure
joy of living? When I was ten I had a playmate just across the south
fence. She had a heart problem and couldn't run and play, but we
spent many hours talking across the fence. Together we watched the
spiders weave their webs and were fascinated by the activities of ants
and other insects. One year we watched a pair of Robins build their
nest and raise a family. Such plans we had for the future!
"When I grow up" started many sentences, but for her, this was never to
be for she lived only a short while after that. Her death was the
first great tragedy in my life.
When I was ten, my little sister were five and three,
and there were three older brothers. They wouldn't have been caught
playing with a girl so most of my play time was spent alone. I never
did mind, as long as there was something to read. We took the "Youth's
Companion" which had good stories (with always a moral) and puzzles and
contests for all of us. Then we had our Sunday School papers, by
David C. Cook. But my favorite reading, next to Grimm's Fairy Tales,
was a stack of magazines called "The Deaconess" that someone had given
mama. Such stories! They were about a group of ladies who always
wore gray dresses with white collars and went about the cities doing good.
When these angels of mercy appeared on the scene, always miraculously just
in the nick of time the villain knew he dad lost and , muttering curses,
quickly left. "When I grew up" I vowed to be a Deaconess and in my
vivid imagination, many were the situations in which I put the villain
to flight. It was through those stories I began to sort out the values
of life and to grasp, in small measure the rewards of live of service to
mankind compared to living for one's pleasure.
The summer I was ten mama was thirty, and was carrying
her seventh child. It was a dry hot summer but canning won't wait
and that year there were beets and cucumbers to pickle, and peaches to
can. Mason jars had to be washed, usually in a wash tub on the well
curb, where we pumped water to cover them and let them soak for awhile.
How mama always appreciated a cold drink when we pumped water. I
can almost hear her say "O, that tastes so cold and good - you must have
pumped it off the bottom of the well!" Of course, ice was an unheard
of luxury, but on rare occasions, we had lemonade and what a treat it was,
even without ice. After preparing it - not from a mix, but by squeezing
lemons, mama would sit down a few minutes and sip hers slowly, relishing
every drop. Rarely did she sit down to rest through the day and ,
as long as she lived, never did she lie down unless she was very sick.
There are many memories about that particular summer,
some not so pleasant. Like the time I sneaked a green peach off the
tree in spite of warnings not to until they were ripe. It had a pinkish
blush on one side and I thought it would be sweet and delicious, but instead
it was hard and bitter. But because I couldn't think of any way to
dispose of it, I ate it anyway. the stomach ache that resulted was
punishment enough for my disobedience, mama said, when finally I could
stand my guilt no longer and confessed to her. To this day the call
of the Mourning Dove brings back the memory of a sad little girl, in the
grass under the peach tree with the agony of a guilty conscience in competition
with an awful stomach ache. And somewhere across the grade, the Mourning
Doves called to each other.
Yes, the "in between" age of ten, although sometimes
quite difficult, were always interesting. I have scars to remind
me of the time I washed the north window too hard and broke it, and the
time my left hand got caught in the old hand pushed lawn mower. On
second thought, maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to go back to "when
I was ten".
When mama had her seventh child, I was just past
ten years old. I felt very mature and grown up when she called me
into her bedroom and opened the bottom bureau drawer and showed me the
dainty things she had ready. This was her way of introducing the
facts of life to me. It was a beautiful secret between us and I remember
asking her, "Who else know?" "Does papa know?" It seems inconceivable
now that a ten year old could be so ignorant but those things were not
talked about then like they are now.
Mama kept her baby clothes from one to another,
adding such as needed for each new one. They were always dainty and
snowy white with much hand crocheted lace and white embroidery. No
baby in our family ever wore anything colored until it was time to learn
to crawl! And no baby dress or slip was ever sewn on the machine,
but every tiny stitch must be done by hand.
In our small prairie town, there was a general practitioner
family doctor (yes, he made house calls) and one of the older women acted
as mid-wife. When her "time had come", mama sent the children all
to a neighbors, made sure there was lots of water on to heat, sent one
of the boys to the doctors and another to the one who would act as mid-wife.
Then she brought out a stack of clean, white cloths, which she had ironed
until they began to scorch (her way of sterilizing them) and everything
was in readiness for the important event.
At this particular time, the new baby was a plump
little boy - such a delicate, tiny wonder of creation. From the moment
we first looked down on him, sound asleep in his warm nest of blankets,
he became number one in all of our hearts. He grew so fast and his
fat little cheeks pushed his eyes almost shut every time he laughed, which
was most of the time.
A couple of weeks after he was born, the neighbor
who had helped him into the world, came across the road to see him.
She was a short, plump woman of German descent whom everybody called Grandma
Breidenstein. When she looked at him she made the remark, in her
broken English, that "He don't favor himself like he did when he was first
born."
Mama had two more babies after that, a total of
nine, everyone with a very special place in our hearts. Mama often
remarked that no one could stay mad for very long in a house where there
was a baby. Papa would just smile.
It was raining when we wake up this morning.
No matter how much we need the moisture there is just something depressing
about a rainy day. As I picked out the bright red top to wear, I
could almost hear mama say, "Be sure and wear your red dress to school
today, the day will be a dark one and that will put a bright spot into
it." Of course, I always had a red dress, since my hair was black
and mama thought red and pink were my colors. If the red one was
already dirty, I was sometimes allowed to wear my Sunday best to school
on a dark day. There were always the long stockings, mostly black
with a white pair for Sunday school if mama could make the monthly check
stretch that far.
There were lots of ways to make that check stretch.
We didn't realize we were poor, and we never did go hungry, but I remember
lots of suppers of much and milk or bread and milk, with canned fruit from
the cellar for desert. We never complained and there was no such
thing as foods we didn't like. If it was food and on the table we
ate it. Not that we didn't have favorites. One of the boys
was so fond of beans that as soon as he smelled them cooking he would go
get his little bowl and a spoon and sit down to wait for them to get done.
Everybody's favorite was mama's chocolate pie. She never used a recipe
for them, but they always were the same, real dark with chocolate, thick
and sweet. Mostly they had no topping, and it was not until I was
almost grown that I first tasted whipped cream. In the spring, we
had rhubarb pie and gooseberries, which grew wild for the picking in the
timber. I was never allowed to go because I always got too near a
poison ivy vine, no matter how carefully I tried to avoid it.
Asparagus was another favorite food in the early
spring. It came up every year in a long row across our front yard
and we picked it very other day. With the wild greens mama gathered,
our winter's menu was stretched out until the first lettuce and radishes
out of the garden were ready. Those first fresh garden vegetables
were such a treat. Now we can have them all season long and they
are not such a treat but how we looked forward to that first mess of new
peas. Mama usually had to "scrabble" a few new potatoes out of a
hill to make them stretch for a mess. Then cooked in cream sauce,
there was nothing like it. And later, the roasting ears! We
could hardly wait for them to fill out. The rich yellow cow butter
made them irresistible.
And so my thoughts ran on and on, until I hardly
noticed when the shower was over and the sun come out. It made me
wonder if today's mothers realize that every day, they are building memories
for their little ones. How careful we should be to build the right
kind!
Mama never wasted a bite of food. Her potatoes
were peeled as thin as paper. The eyes were dug out deftly with the
point of the knife. With her, thriftiness was a way of life.
When I was about ten, I learned why. I went to stay all night with
a friend who lived about a mile out in the country. They were farmers
and had a large truck patch which they tended with a horse and cultivator,
instead of a hoe and kid power like we did. They had just plowed
out their sweet potatoes and had them piled under a tree in the shade to
dry out before storing them. We had some for supper, and my friend
and I were given the task of peeling them. Hers were peeled so thick
I couldn't believe it, and of course, I said something about it.
"Oh," she said, "We have more than we can eat anyway, so why not?"
After I got home and was telling mama about it,
she asked, "Well! I sure hope you didn't peel yours thick - you didn't
did you?" I had to admit that I did and that I thought it was kinda
fun, because I knew there were plenty left." It was then I got a
short lecture that I have never forgotten. Without stopping what
she was doing, she told me, "We could plant all the garden in the world,
but it is God who makes it grow. He gives us things like sweet potatoes
to eat, to feed our bodies. But He does not intend for us to waste
any of it. If we have more than we need, we should share it with
someone who doesn't - sell it or give it away - but never waste it."
Her thrift was not only in the area of food, but
in everything. Our clothes were handed down from one to the other
wherever possible, and when they were past wearing, were used up in various
ways. I don't remember ever wearing patched clothes to school (unless
it was stockings) but as soon as we got home from school, we changed and
some of the everyday ones were patched aplenty. The boys of course,
wore only blue denim bib overalls and blue chambray shirts, and usually
wore the same outfit for all five days of school. On Saturday night
everyone had a bath ready for a clean outfit put on after Sunday School
and worn the rest of the week.
When a pair of overalls became too patched to be
any longer wearable, mama cut the backs of the legs out to use for patches
on the next pair. The blue shirts, long sleeved for winter, often
wore out at the elbows first. Then the sleeves were cut off and hemmed
for summer, collars turned and stitched back with the worn part on the
under side. It didn't matter at all that the button hole was on the
wrong side because the collar was never buttoned anyway. When on
finally had to be discarded the best parts were cut out and saved for patches.
An old shirt made a good "foot rag" to dry those six or seven pairs of
bare feet every night.
Our salt mostly came in small cloth bags, which
were just right for wash rags. Also an old pair of long underwear,
no longer patchable, would yield several good squares for wash rags, as
well as some not so good for dish rags. I believe I was in the High
School before I ever saw a terry towel or washcloth. What a wonderful
luxury! Instead of paper towels or hand towels, we usually had a
roller towel, which could be two yards or more long, on a roller so it
could be pulled down to a clean place when it became soiled. Bath
towels were linen or crash, often formerly a bran sack.
Monday of course, was wash day. There were
few emergencies serious enough to change it to any other day. Even
here mama made use of everything. She used the boil water, boiling
hot and full of P & G soap, to scrub the out door toilet, porches,
or to dunk the hens nests to rid them of mites. The suds water and
rinse water were used for scrubbing the kitchen floor with the broom.
It was bare boards, long since scrubbed free of nay paint. Worn out
underwear made her favorite mop for finishing it. I have a nostalgic
memory of coming in the back door onto a fresh scrubbed floor, still wet,
and cool on my bare feet, and the kitchen filled with the heavenly smell
of fresh baked bread. What more could a hungry kid ask for?
Mama and papa were both saved in a Billy Sunday meeting
when I was quite a little girl. They had gone to Wichita to visit
Aunt Nettie and the big tent and the crowds stirred their curiosity.
They went, and walked the sawdust trail with hundreds of others.
I was too little to remember too much about it, but I well remember the
change it made in our family. Papa started a family altar and every
night at 8:45, all activity stopped as we gathered around the table while
he read a chapter in the Bible, then we all got down on our knees while
he prayed. I must have been a natural wiggler, because immediately
my legs would begin to itch, or my stubbed toe would hurt or, lacking any
real physical excuse, my nose would tickle and a sneeze or more would try
to disrupt the solemnity of papa's prayer. Papa was very conscientious
and thorough with his praying and would begin with the littlest and go
right on through his own family, his loved ones, and clear on up to the
president of the United States and his staff. It was a most solemn
occasion, and woe to the mischief maker who giggled, or worse yet, let
out a stifled "ouch" when slyly pinched or kicked by the very human little
angel kneeling beside him. Papa would continue to the end, and as
though nothing happened, but as soon as he said "amen" the culprits would
be dealt with severely. Once when I told mama afterward about one
of my brothers who didn't have his eyes closed, she remarked calmly, "And
I guess you can see right through your eyelids, young lady!"
I wa properly and completely squelched.
We were not forced to go to Sunday School, but unless
we were sick, we almost never missed. Oh we tried! We had all
kinds of excuses, but we didn't get away with it because mama had a rule
that anyone who didn't go to Sunday School, didn't go anywhere else that
day. It was a hard and fast rule and we soon learned that it was
practically impossible to break it. Mama's rules were like that!
Sunday was a day of rest. On Saturday the
house was cleaned, extra baking was done and only the very minimum of work
was done on the Lord's day. Mama even felt a little guilty, mending
a missed hole in a long black stocking before Sunday School. And
you can be sure it was the lesser of two evils, because not one of mama's
family deliberately wore a garment that needed mending, especially stockings.
They almost always needed it when they were taken off, but never when put
on clean. Mama was an expert mender and we were never ashamed of
a patch. She always kept us neat and clean, even though we wore hand-me-downs.
Looking back now, I wonder how she ever managed. One thing sure,
she never felt the need of taking an outside job, or got bored, or learned
bridge to pass the time. There was a Ladies Aid, but she seldom attended
unless they were going to work on bedding or sewing for the needy.
Her home and family always came first with mama!
Every child should have an Uncle Joe. When
I was seven or eight years old, mama's brother moved to a town not far
from us. He had a car which, in itself, set him apart, since there
were very few privately owned cars then, almost none in the tiny town where
we lived. So Uncle Joe frequently came to visit us. He always
brought me presents and I regarded him as a very special person, perhaps
because he made ME feel like someone special, not just one of Kate's kids,
as most people did.
Once when he came, he brought me a little ironing
board and iron. The iron was just like mama's, with a handle that
fit down over the iron. i never did have much luck with the
ironing board as I recall, because it had folding legs and was wobbly.
Besides it wasn't like mama's. Her's had no legs but was supported
on one end by the back of a chair and the other end was on the table.
When mama ironed, the big wicker basket would be full of clothes, sprinkled
by dipping her hand into a bowl of warm water, and flipping the water over
the clothes, then rolling them up tightly to let the dampness penetrate
the fibers. Pillow cases and other things that weren't starched were
folded over the top. Then as she ironed, the table became covered
with neatly folded stacks, ready to be put away - one stack to go to the
boy's bureau, one for my room. then, of course, there were most always
baby clothes. Mama didn't trust anyone else to iron these, but always
did that herself. But she did let me iron handkerchiefs with my little
iron when she had to stop for something. I tried to do it just like
she did, rubbing the iron over a pad of newspaper first, to be sure it
was clean, then over the wax pad, which was a chunk of paraffin folded
into a piece of an old sheet, to make it glide smoothly. At the time,
I thought it was great fun, but after I got old enough to use the big iron,
it wasn't anything I looked forward to.
But to get back to Uncle Joe . . . once, as cold
weather came on, I didn't have a coat. Mama and I spent some time
with the Montgomery Ward catalog and i picked out the one I wanted.
But, as she explained, there was the rent to pay and also insurance, and
papa's check just wouldn't stretch that far. I had never had a "boughten"
coat in my life and the disappointment was crushing. Then, a couple
of weeks later, a package came, addressed to me from Emery, Bird &
Thayer in Kansas City. When I could settle my excitement enough to
open it, there in all the tissue paper was a beautiful brown coat, almost
exactly like the one I had picked out in the catalog. The "new" smell
was wonderful. Mama told me Uncle Joe bought it and had the store
send it, and I loved him all the more. I wondered how he knew I needed
it and just the very one too. It would have spoiled everything if
I had known mama had written to him about it. It was many years later
before I ever thought that was how it happened, and then I couldn't bring
myself to ask her, and spoil the magic of that very special event.
How I must have strutted at school, showing off my new mail order finery!
Sometimes Uncle Joe brought us candy, and one unforgettable
day he slipped me a dime to buy some, a very exciting experience.
It seems to me now, that candy was one of the highlights of my life, probably
because we seldom had it, and also because of my inherited sweet tooth.
I remember so well a favorite day dream of mine in which Uncle Joe bought
out the local grocery store and put in a big candy section with
all the kinds of sweets pictured in the Sears Roebuck grocery catalog.
Then, whenever mama sent me to the store, he would tell me, with a grand
sweep of his hand toward the candy case, "Just help yourself to all you
want." To me that was as near heaven as I ever wanted.
But dreams don't always come true and this was not
to be, for Uncle Joe eventually bought a cleaning shop instead, and there
was little to interest me when I went ot visit him. The nicest thing
I remember about it, was when he brought home store ice cream which we
topped with strawberry jam - surely this was the best thing in the whole
world to eat, and I vowed to have it every day when I grew up and got a
job. Yes, every child should have an Uncle Joe, and I am so thankful
for mine and the happy memories he made for me.
The winters were long and cold where we lived when
I was growing up. We had lots of snow and the "crick" would be frozen
over for weeks at a time, with many skating parties and sled riding.
I think about those skating times whenever I see a Currier & Ives picture
of a winter scene. Every boy had ice skates, and most of the girls,
and what fun it was to skim over the ice, making figure 8s to impress your
best girl. There was always an old log to sit on when we put our
skates on, and any girl was lucky if she had a boy friend to fasten her
skates to the thick soles of her shoes. There was a roaring fire
on the bank to thaw out when the cold got too much.
Although our terrain was mostly flat and level,
there was an old railroad grade that ran through the town which provided
good sledding and Saturdays were always filled with shouts and sometimes
screams when a sled turned over or collided with another. Very seldom
did anyone have a "boughten" sled, ours was one papa made, long enough
for three or four to ride. I loved to coast down but one how I hated
it when it came my turn to pull that cumbersome sled back to the top!
Schools didn't close every time it snowed like they
do today. One incident stands out vividly in my memory. I was
always losing my mittens, or just forgetting to take them. Mama scolded
me for it, and one cold day I went to school without them, reasoning that
it would be better to have cold hands than be scolded. When I got
to school my hands were white with frostbite and the teacher was alarmed.
She sent on of the boys to the pump for a washpan of water, cold as ice,
and she put my hands in it and rubbed them until feeling came back.
And then they hurt so, I almost wished for the numbness.
And those blizzards we used to have! Once
I got lost coming home from school. I was always losing my directions
anyway, and this time it was snowing so hard I couldn't see anything on
either side of me. I knew when I came to the top of the grade, and
I guessed when to turn and knew I was headed the right way by the
way the wind was blowing. For awhile I kept in the road, instinctively,
but then i found myself floundering in drifts and knew I must be of the
road but I didn't know which side. After much zig zagging back and
forth and not being able to tell where the road was, I began to get scared.
I was probably three blocks from home but those three blocks were aa strange
to me as if I had never been over them.
Suddenly I heard a snort and felt something warm
on my neck at the same time I heard papa yell at old Trix, not understanding
why she had stopped. I never loved old Trix so much as I did when,
refusing to obey papa's command, she stood still until papa got out of
the mail cart to find the reason, because I was so cold I couldn't even
yell. It wasn't long before she took us safely the rest of the way
home and, wrapped in papa's big lap robe, I was carried into mama's warm
kitchen, none the worse for my frightening experience.
The next day was Saturday and the sun came out in
a dazzling brilliance, with everything covered with several inches of snow.
In the afternoon I went out to play and built a snow house tall enough
for me to stand up in, just by hollowing out a drift along the garden fence.
We made snow ice cream and I thought a big snow was a lot of fun, but my
brother who had to keep the wood-box filled, wasn't a now lover.
This big wood-box was behind the kitchen range and
it was his job to see that it was full every morning before he left for
school and again in the evening before dark. Such big loads of wood
he could carry in his short pudgy arms! He boasted that he could
carry more in one load then anyone else, but i don't remember anyone ever
contesting his boastful claim. Sometimes he would persuade me to
come out and "load him up" piling all the wood on his outstretched arms,
clear up to his chin. I can still hear him yelling "open the door
somebody" and the sound of the load falling into the big wood box.
In the evening there also a big bucket or basket of chips for starting
the fire. On Saturdays the big reservoir had to be filled with water
for the weekly baths.
Yes, winter brought it's fun but with it came many
unpleasant chores also, and everyone in the family had his regular tasks.
Mama was the organizer and overseer and kept everyone on the job she felt
he was best suited for.
It was a raw March Saturday. A drizzle of rain
had spoiled all planned activities for out door work. The wind was
relentless. Only one who has lived on the Kansas prairie could ever
know the meaning of a "relentless wind". There was no let-up.
It blew as though it were trying to fling the whole out doors across the
north pasture. Then it gusted even harder and drove the rain clear
through coats and overalls to the bone. Only the very minimum of
outside chores were done. It was too cold to scatter through the
house, which meant mama had seven of us in the big kitchen where she was
trying to do her week-end baking.
It wasn't long before we began to get restless and
quarrelsome. Brother #1 (Clarence) was working on his invention -
a buzzer which used discarded telephone batteries for power. But
the little ones asked too many question and got in his way. Brother
#2 (Dillon) was working on a drawing of our school house, which he hoped
would win a prize in a school contest. But the little ones juggled
the table and he was irritated and cross. Brother #3 (Lee) took a
pan and filled it with walnuts and ran to the shelter of the barn to crack
them.
Finally, tired of the bickering, mama's patience
ran clear down to the lowest ebb. "Just too much contrast in activities"
she must have reasoned, so she invented a game that involved us all and
kept us busy and happy for hours. From orange crates and boards,
the boys built a country store. Lee brought in a dish full of plump
walnut goodies and mama started baking cookies. She must have baked
dozens and dozens. They were all round, the biggest ones were dollars,
and there was a size for all the coins. Their grocery shelves were
stocked from mama's pantry (and as an added benefit, she cleaned the empty
shelves and covered them with clean folded newspapers.) We sold everything
in our store and the prices were often high but we were learning to make
change, and were having fun instead of quarreling.
Another cold winter day I remember was when mama
brought out her scrap bag and dumped it on the kitchen table. The
quilt top that was the result, was another family affair. One did
the pressing, another cut patches from the cardboard pattern. Mama
showed us how to lay the pattern out to get the most possible patches cut.
The two older boys took turns running the treadle Singer machine and sewing
two patches together. It was mostly my job to clip them apart when
they had a long strip that fell to the floor behind the machine.
What fun it was then to match them up into a four-patch, and we were learning
all the time about which colors looked best together, about different fabrics,
etc. Another thing we learned was the easiest way to rip a seam,
for you may be sure there was no crooked seam or shoddy workmanship escaped
mama's critical eye. In my mind's eye I can see that quilt now.
We often talked about it and pointed out which ones we had sewed together,
and picked out scraps of a favorite dress or apron.
Papa always had a hog fat and ready to butcher in
the winter when the first hard freeze came. Neighbors who came in
to help, each took home a "mess" of liver, and it was a week or more before
all the sausage had been made and fried down, lard rendered and hams and
bacon in a wooden barrel of brine to cure.
Then, with fresh lard, mama would make up a big
batch of doughnuts. O! the heavenly aroma of fresh frying doughnuts!
She fried them in a huge iron skillet, lifted them out with a big fork
into a draining pan, then while they were still almost too hot to handle,
they were dipped into a delectable mixture of sugar and fresh grated nutmeg.
There were always plenty of volunteers for this dipping. The big
blue granite dishpan sat next but we were allowed to eat the first ones
while they were hot, so it was a long time before that dish pan began to
full up. When she thought we had enough (just on the safe side of
a stomach ache) they went into the dishpan. What a panful of golden
brown goodness! They lasted for two or three days and what a treat
to open up our half gallon syrup pails of lunch the next day at school
and find a couple under the sandwich of homemade bread.
And those school lunches are another story.
No hot lunches in those days. Every family was responsible for feeding
its own, with no grants made by the government to take over the task which
every mother considered a part of her regular duties. Mama fixed
as many as five lunches a day. I can still remember the way my syrup
bucket smelled when I opened it up at noon. It is something I can't
describe - neither pleasant nor unpleasant - and a hungry youngster never
took time to notice it. Nothing was ever wasted, we ate the crusts
and all the crumbs. If we left anything at noon, we ate it on the
way home that night.
Because our town was very small, with only one grocery
store, we often sent to Sears Roebuck or Montgomery Ward for a big grocery
order once or twice in the winter. It was an exciting time when the
order came, because it always included a treat of raisins, dried fruit,
peanuts in the shell or sometimes some hard candy. Next day we had
a "treat" of a little packet of these goodies in our lunch. Only
we didn't call it lunch, but dinner, and the evening meal was supper.
Our town boasted a twelve grade school. There
was only one building and the grades were divided into four "rooms" with
one teacher to each. Can you imagine one teacher teaching the whole
high school? The first six grades were on the ground floor, divided
from the higher six grades by very long stairway going up and up, or so
it seemed to me, in the middle of the hall, where the "big kids" went.
At noon and recess, we played outside, such games
as "Blackman", "Last Couple Out", "Hide and Seek", and some I'm sure that
were our own invention. The smaller children played "Drop the Handkerchief"
and "Ring Around the Rosey". But I think an all time favorite was
playing house. In our area were numerous small flat rocks and we
used them build our house. Each room was outlined with a row of rocks,
and also the beds and other furniture. Then we chose one for the
mama and the rest were the children. We had a word of our own coinage
(but I didn't know it wasn't in the dictionary until years after).
The word was short for "play like" and said simply "Plike". Almost
every sentence began with it. What imaginations we had and the bell
always rang too soon!
Mama was a diplomat. She always managed to
get the most out of a school holiday. On Thanksgiving papa and the
boys hauled in our winter's supply of wood. Papa had been going to
the timber every afternoon after he got home from his mail route and cutting
logs ready for this day. Then early in the morning he would hitch
up old Trix and Buddy and he and the boys would haul them in to our wood
pile, where they would be ready to be cut into stove lengths, all done
with an axe and a cross-cut saw, and of course, man power.
If the weather was warm, we might all go, and have
a picnic at noon. Then we would scout around and find the best nut
trees and pick up walnuts, sometimes as many as a spring wagon box full.
Tired but happy, we rode home on top of the nuts at dusk, and unloaded
them on the walnut pile. Seems to me we always had a walnut pile.
There they would be hulled and cracked for the winter goodies. There
was always a length of railroad iron and a hammer handy for a quick stop
over on the way to gather eggs or pick up chips and kindling for tomorrow's
fire in the big cook stove. We used horse-shoe nails for picks.
I never knew there was such a thing as a nut pick until I was almost grown
up.
We picked out cupfuls of these plump goodies, willingly,
because we looked forward to the day when mama would be making candy.
Shortly after the Thanksgiving holiday, things began
to be very mysterious around home. There were two catalogs we always
had, Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward. After supper it would be
quite a contest to see who would get the catalog first. Every night
the talk went something like this: "Where's the Monkey Ward catalog?
I left it right here." "I had it and it's under the table because
I'm not through with it yet." "Well, I had it first and I'm not through
with it either." "Well, all I can say is you better not lose my place".
In spite of all the competition, mama always managed
to send off an order long before Christmas. we got whatever clothes
we needed when the package came but for the most part, its contents were
a deep dark secret. Sometimes when money would be especially scarce,
mama would tell us before hand that "Christmas will be slim this year."
But I don't remember any slim ones, we always got a toy or gift of some
kind, with a stocking (long black ones of course) full of nuts (the store
bought kind) an apple and orange, and some other small gift. I don't
remember so much what I got, it is the "feel of Christmas" that I recall.
Such a lot of whispering, secret hiding places and an over-all air of mystery.
It seemed like the very air had a feel of excitement. Mama loved
it all. She was the stabilizer, the go-between, the equalizer.
She knew what every one was giving everyone else and somehow she kept it
all in balance. I wonder how she kept all the secrets.
We never knew what we would find when we came home
from school. Mama started making candy long before the big day.
The big kitchen would have such a heavenly smell when we opened the door.
Immediately someone yelled, "Dibs on lickin' the pan." She let us
lick the pan all right, but every bit of the candy was stowed away in the
pantry until the day before Christmas, when she would divide it into equal
portions. When each plate was heaped, she started fixing boxes with
what was left. If anyone was sick, or alone, that one got a box of
mama's goodies. I remember one year she even sent one to the town
drunk . . . well, he was all alone wasn't he? And it was Christmas!
Mama was always making up some special little goodie
to surprise us. One of her regulars was the little prune man.
The prune was a the body, a toothpick fastened on a marshmallow head with
chocolate features, and raisin covered arms and legs. He looked so
cute on the top of our candy plates on Christmas morning.
I have often wondered if the fact that she had such
bleak Christmases when she was a child, had anything to do with her all-out
efforts to give us such good ones. I wish every child in the world
could have such happy memories.
In spite of the fact that each had his share of chores
everyday, mom always made sure we had plenty of time for play. Store
bought toys were scarce but we never felt underprivileged because of the
lack, but each spent his spare time in his own way. i never remember
hearing the complaint so common now, "There's nothing to do." Fun
for the boys was an hour or so with a hoop, which was the outer iron rim
from an old buggy wheel. Add a lath or stick with a short piece nailed
across the end. The object was to see how long the hoop could be
kept rolling without falling. The guiding "T" stick could be manipulated
to turn the hoop in either direction and it was considered quite an accomplishment
when it could be rolled in a circle. The grumpy old man who lived
across the road was always wondering what the younger generation was coming
to when boys were allowed to "run wild over the neighborhood, wearing out
their shoe leather."
Then there were stilts. Somehow I never could
master the art of walking on them. A pair of stilts was simply a
stout stick a little taller than the boy they were made for. A block
of wood 3 or 4 inches wide was nailed on about a foot from the bottom.
It was secured by a piece of leather, probably from an old harness, nailed
to the outer edge of the block and up on the stick. making a kind
of stirrup. As the owner became more adept at walking on these precarious
things, the stirrups were raised on the sticks, and the boy was finally
walking in the air. I think Lee was our champion stilt walker and
I can see him now, backing up to the side of a building where his short
chubby legs were soon as long as papa's and he was soon strutting around
the yard. One thing about walking on stilts - you did best when you
kept walking, when you stopped you were most apt to topple over unless
you were near a tree or building for support.
In the winter there was always snow. On the
prairie there are few hills, but youngsters old and young would gather
at the old railroad grade for a Saturday afternoon of fun. On rare
occasions someone with an old gentle riding horse, would take everyone
for a thrill ride, which usually ended with a quick turn, spilling everyone
off into a snow bank. The ice on the "crick" was always thick enough
for skating and every boy and most girls had a pair of skates that clamped
to the soles of their shoes. Someone would clean the snow off an
old fallen log, where they could sit to put on their skates. If a
girl had a boy friend, it was his privilege to put her skates on.
Then he would try to impress her by cutting a "figure eight" and other
feats of skill. Someone would build a big bonfire near the log, for
the comfort of those who did not skate.
Walking home in the winter moonlight we suddenly
realized who tired we were, and we welcomed the big mug of hot cocoa mama
made for us while we unbundled and rubbed warmth back into our hands and
feet. Remember?
There is a crispness in the air these mornings.
A heavy frost looks almost like snow in the moonlight. Time to plow
the garden so it can catch all the winter's snow and the constant freezing
and thawing will make it mellow and workable in the spring. Time
too, to make apple butter, mincemeat and lots and lots of apple pies.
mama's apple butter was dark with cinnamon and cooked slow and long until
it was thick. Somehow that first batch of apple goodness never did
last long enough to get into jars. On a thick slice of homemade bread,
it was sooooo good! There was jelly too, made mostly from the peelings.
Set in the window in all odd shaped jars and glasses, it sparkled in the
sun like a stained glass window. I liked the jelly best on crackers,
crisp and fresh from the cracker barrel at the grocery store, not the tiny
ones we get today but a big square that held a lot of that ruby red apple
jell, shimmering with tart goodness.
But the biggest project was when mama decided the
time was right for making hominy. It had to be cold weather, so it
would keep a long time (no freezers or electric refrigerators in those
days.) Then mama was careful in selecting the corn with the biggest
kernels, either white or yellow. It was carefully shelled and all
imperfect kernels discarded. Usually on a Friday night it was started
by being put to soak in strong Lewis Lye solution. The next day it
was simmered slowly until a spoonful dropped in cold water was just right.
At this stage the outer hard covering would be eaten away by the lye and
the little tips would fall off easily, both the outer tips and the inner
one which was black and more stubborn to remove.
When it was just right, two of the boys carried
the huge kettle out to the well curb where it was washed until the water
was clear, a job that took lots of elbow grease on the pump handle.
Back to the stove for more simmering, then more washing, several times,
until all traces of lye was gone. By this time the tips were supposed
to be all washed away leaving these big, fluffy, tender kernels.
Mama liked to fry it in fresh pork fryings, or ham grease. She kept
it on the back porch where it usually stayed frozen until it was all gone.
I liked it best with a dollop of sorghum molasses. Since the corn
now is all hybrid, with such small hard kernels, I wonder what kind of
hominy it would make. There is a special flavor to the homemade kind
that is never found in a can. Makes me hungry just to think about
it!
Last June, five of Mom's kids came from near and
far, and met at the little town where we grew up, where I spent seven years
learning the three "R's". Although it had been some thirty years
since I had been there, it was a memorable experience. Things have
changed, of course, but several of the old buildings were still on Main
Street - Mrs. Wallace's Store, where dry goods and notions were sold, and
which was connected by a walk-thru' to her husband's grocery store next
door. The old post-office, where Dr. Hurd had his office in a room
at the rear, has been replaced by a new building, and also the telephone
exchange building. The long hoped for railroad now runs its many
long cattle trains smack through the middle of town. There is a brand
new fire station. The old school house has been replaced by a new,
modern one with no resemblance to the old white frame two story one where
some of us had started in the first grade. But probably the greatest
change for me, was the church.
We went up in our campers, on Saturday, and met
at the church, where we met the preacher getting his exercise on his bicycle.
Then Sunday morning, we went to Sunday School and church. I knew
the church would be changed, but was not quite prepared for it. I
suppose I half-way expected to see the same wooden pew where I sat so many
times, and where, one hot summer day, I sat down on my newly starched and
"done up" pink sunbonnet, incurring mama's displeasure in no uncertain
terms. I remember it was a round brim, a very new pattern, with the
crown buttoned on, designed to lay flat for ironing. I was quite
proud of it. But the pews are now upholstered, and the sanctuary
carpeted, with a fellowship hall and kitchen added, plus some class rooms,
the whole very modern and beautiful. We were very pleased to be able
to take communion also.
But probably the greatest change in the church
was the absence of the big Round Oak heater which was in an open space
toward the back. In my mind I could still see Uncle Sam sitting there
with his chair tipped back, just waiting for Aunt Lizzie to get through
so he could ge back home. Aunt Lizzie was a Sunday School teacher
and the back bone of the church, but Uncle Sam just "came along" mostly
because Aunt Lizzie was one of those whose word was law, and who always
had the last word.
One of the highlights of the whole trip was going
through the old home on the hill. It was empty, with a "FOR SALE"
sign in the yard. There were very few changes inside. The big
pantry, where I used to steal the cinnamon bark out of mama's whole spices,
has been made into a bathroom, a sink and built-ins added to the kitchen
and the front porch closed in. I don't find any words to describe
my feelings as I walked into that kitchen. I seemed to hear mama's
voice "Lee, get that wood-box filled, and don't forget the chips, Clarence,
fill the reservoir and bring in the big tub, and Thelma, you forgot to
dust the top of the wainscoting. Now do it right now before you forget
it again. You girls get the table set for supper. Now MOVE!"
That's our mom, always in full command.
Upstairs, my room was unchanged, but looking somehow,
smaller than in my imagination. i couldn't resist a little chuckle
when I found my secret hiding place between the two windows out on the
porch roof. Until the day we moved away, no one ever found it out.
How many fairy tales I have read there away from the sound of mama's call,
because, even though I knew she needed me, I didn't feel guilty when I
couldn't hear her. But the stairs were the same, with the landing
in the middle, although surely they must have grown steeper, and the dark
and scary closet underneath.
Many of the old timers are gone now, but Marie and
Turk still live in the Baird place, and Eunice lives across from the walnut
grove. Ola and her husband Joel came in to see us too, and some of
the Hoy boys. I could write a book, I suppose about that trip - but
the rest will have to wait another time. 
