West of Poplar 1929 - 1934
We didn't stay long in the house northwest of Brockton.
Home Range, page 172, reports, “1928 was a very good year so he (Dad)
moved his family to a place a couple of miles west of Poplar
where he rented two more sections of land.”
(We believe “section” was used as a general term. A section was 640 acres.
Dad didn't have the equipment to farm such a large area and actually rented much smaller parcels than sections.)
Dad didn't have the equipment to farm such a large area and actually rented much smaller parcels than sections.)
House by the Railroad Tracks
Home from 1929 to 1934
I don’t remember much about the move to this house,
but we lived there five years so I do have many memories of our lives at the Little House by the RR Tracks.
but we lived there five years so I do have many memories of our lives at the Little House by the RR Tracks.
The Great Northern Railroad ran east and west past our house.
The rails were on a rise approximately six feet high.
There was a narrow dirt road parallel to the tracks, on the south side, just at the bottom of the rise.
Our house was just next to the south side of the road.
“And the train ran right through the middle of the house"
That line from the song “In The Middle of The House” always brings up memories of our house there
because when those big freight trains roared by,
it surely sounded and felt like they were running right through our house!
We sometimes counted rail cars as trains passed.
I don’t remember any actual counts, but often it seemed the cars rolled by endlessly.
This house was painted outside -- a creamy yellow!
And there was wallpaper inside. I’m not sure if the wallpaper was already there or if Mama and Dad hung it.
There were three large rooms: kitchen, living room, and bedroom.
An oversize opening between the living room and bedroom had drapes hung on a pole to shut the rooms off from each other.
The living room floor was covered with shiny, smooth linoleum.
There was nice big covered veranda along the east side of the house off the living room.
On the south side, outside the kitchen door, was a large stoop that Dad later enclosed as a “backroom.”
And there was wallpaper inside. I’m not sure if the wallpaper was already there or if Mama and Dad hung it.
There were three large rooms: kitchen, living room, and bedroom.
An oversize opening between the living room and bedroom had drapes hung on a pole to shut the rooms off from each other.
The living room floor was covered with shiny, smooth linoleum.
There was nice big covered veranda along the east side of the house off the living room.
On the south side, outside the kitchen door, was a large stoop that Dad later enclosed as a “backroom.”
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Mama’s youngest brothers, Ted and Ernie, stayed with us when they went to high school in Poplar. They slept in that backroom.
Outside the backroom was the pump and, towering high over it, a windmill. Next to the pump was a gasoline engine used to run the pump for irrigation those few times when there wasn’t enough wind to run the windmill. A big barrel sat nearby to catch soft rain water, a luxury for shampoos since the well yielded hard water which tended to leave one’s hair a little stiff and sticky. Just west of the house a clothesline ran parallel to the railroad tracks. Just west of the clothesline sat the inevitable two-holer complete with Sears or Montgomery Ward catalog. Beyond were a bunk house, barn, pig pen, and chicken house. Mama claimed that not long after we first moved there, she found me sitting on the ground outside the chicken house eating chicken feed. The bunk house was for hired help during harvest season. Ted and Ernie stayed in the bunk house for a while before Dad built the backroom. Dad - reading on a Sunday afternoon on the veranda |
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Sorghum
South of the house Mama and Dad planted a big vegetable garden. The rest was pasture and wheat fields,
although at least one year Dad raised a small crop of sugar cane and processed it into sorghum.
To process the sorghum, Dad first dug a trench approximately 12’ long and 4’ wide. The trench,
in which a fire would be built, was located between the garden and our house, and near the well
(maybe to have water handy in case the fire got out of hand?).
He then built a wooden tray a little wider and longer than the trench and about 1’ deep.
The tray was placed over the trench with one end slightly higher than the other.
In the tray he placed dividers about 1’ apart, but about 4” shorter than the width of the box.
These dividers were positioned so that there would be openings at alternate ends.
The sugar cane was ground into juice, poured into the high end of the tray, flowing its way down to the low end,
moving over the fire from side to side through the openings in the dividers.
I’m guessing Dad put some sort of protection on the bottom of the tray to keep it from catching fire.
Measurements above are also guesstimates.
Dad had some unwanted help testing this project from little Donald. (See Appendix "Donald").
Anyway, nice sweet, thick sorghum came out into a container at the low end of the tray.
South of the house Mama and Dad planted a big vegetable garden. The rest was pasture and wheat fields,
although at least one year Dad raised a small crop of sugar cane and processed it into sorghum.
To process the sorghum, Dad first dug a trench approximately 12’ long and 4’ wide. The trench,
in which a fire would be built, was located between the garden and our house, and near the well
(maybe to have water handy in case the fire got out of hand?).
He then built a wooden tray a little wider and longer than the trench and about 1’ deep.
The tray was placed over the trench with one end slightly higher than the other.
In the tray he placed dividers about 1’ apart, but about 4” shorter than the width of the box.
These dividers were positioned so that there would be openings at alternate ends.
The sugar cane was ground into juice, poured into the high end of the tray, flowing its way down to the low end,
moving over the fire from side to side through the openings in the dividers.
I’m guessing Dad put some sort of protection on the bottom of the tray to keep it from catching fire.
Measurements above are also guesstimates.
Dad had some unwanted help testing this project from little Donald. (See Appendix "Donald").
Anyway, nice sweet, thick sorghum came out into a container at the low end of the tray.
Under the house was a big dirt cellar. There was a stairway from the kitchen down to the cellar,
and another access outside through sloping, almost horizontal double doors that parted to uncover steps to the cellar.
In the cellar Mama kept canned food from the garden, and jams and jellies.
Much of the latter was made from chokecherries that grew wild in the surrounding countryside,
but sometimes she bought fruit to jell and can.
Often you would find in the cellar a large wooden barrel half full of sauerkraut curing from cabbage.
I seem to recall pickles curing from cucumbers too.
In the winter there was nearly always a big box of cold, crispy apples down there (from Washington State?).
Another Hart-Parr. Seeding and Harvesting - 1929
Artie ready for seeding. Our new Hart-Parr 28-50 with cab, grain drills, roller, wagon & gas tank, wagon & seed wheat.
The wagon with the gas tank is probably the one that was found, restored, and donated by Uncle Kenneth to Dad's family.
It was towed to Oregon over the Beartooth Pass and placed on David's Estacada farm.
It was towed to Oregon over the Beartooth Pass and placed on David's Estacada farm.
Dad's wagon, found and restored by Uncle Kenneth – 1992 at Sidney
It wasn’t unusual to see Mama out in the fields in overalls, operating farm machinery to help Dad harvest wheat.
(When the women’s liberation movement first came on the scene,
Mama joked that when it came to equal jobs for men and women, she’d been liberated years ago)
(When the women’s liberation movement first came on the scene,
Mama joked that when it came to equal jobs for men and women, she’d been liberated years ago)
The Hart-Parr 28-50 pulls the Advance-Rumely combine. The International hauls the grain to Poplar - 1929.
Dad standing behind combine on the right.
Dad standing behind combine on the right.
Vehicles
Dad had the basic farm gear: tractor, harrow, plow, combine, and, I’m quite sure, a truck (see International, above.)
It’s pretty hard to run a farm without the latter. I just don’t remember it.
At different times we had a little coupe (Ford?) with rumble seat, an Essex, and then an Auburn.
Dad had the basic farm gear: tractor, harrow, plow, combine, and, I’m quite sure, a truck (see International, above.)
It’s pretty hard to run a farm without the latter. I just don’t remember it.
At different times we had a little coupe (Ford?) with rumble seat, an Essex, and then an Auburn.
Ted and Ernie drove us to school in the coupe
Ernie, Helen Mae & Ted: Ready for school - 1931
I tried driving the Essex once. It was parked in front of the house. I climbed in, fiddled around and managed to start it.
It began rolling toward the outdoor entrance to the cellar. Somehow I managed to find the brake, and turn off the engine.
Nobody ‘down here’ saw me but ‘Someone’ must have been watching over the preschooler
behind the wheel of that huge vehicle!
It began rolling toward the outdoor entrance to the cellar. Somehow I managed to find the brake, and turn off the engine.
Nobody ‘down here’ saw me but ‘Someone’ must have been watching over the preschooler
behind the wheel of that huge vehicle!
Conveniences
...were the same: gasoline and kerosene lamps, coal and wood kitchen range.
There was another stove in the living room, that looked much like latter day oil stoves,
but I believe that stove burned wood and coal.
When it was really cold out, Mama fixed me a cot to sleep on in the kitchen.
Dad banked up that old cast iron kitchen stove and pushed the cot in front of the open oven door.
How nice and cozy, lying there comfy and warm, listening to the fire crackling.
Oh yes, I’ve failed to mention in previous accounts, the chamber pot.
That “convenience,” a white metal pail with handle and lid,
was kept in the house for when it was too cold or too dark for little kids
(yeah, sometimes big folks, too) to make the trip to that two-holer.
Once a problem developed with our two-holer and our current hired girl.
We all noticed that she spent an inordinate amount of time in that convenience
which sometimes created a major inconvenience for others.
Dad decided to get to the bottom of the problem -- literally.
Our hard-working, clean living, usually quiet, dignified Dad revealed another side when the occasion called for it.
He pounded four nails into the toilet seat, one on either side of each hole.
Then he and the hired man rigged up a long wire to be hooked to a battery.
They split the other end of the wire, fed it into the outhouse, under the seat and fastened the split ends to the nails.
The devious plan was to wait for the hired girl’s next outhouse visit,
give her a reasonable amount of time, then attach the wire to the battery
for a shocking reminder that she’d been in there long enough.
And so they watched with great anticipation for her next visit.
She stepped in, closed the door and, after a reasonable length of time,
they attached the wire to the battery and waited -- and waited, and waited.
Nothing. After her usual lengthy stay, she calmly walked out the door.
What went wrong?
My theory is that she may have noticed the addition of nail heads
and insulated them with several catalog pages.
The battery could have been dead, but I’m sure Dad would have known that.
That one was on you, Dad.
...were the same: gasoline and kerosene lamps, coal and wood kitchen range.
There was another stove in the living room, that looked much like latter day oil stoves,
but I believe that stove burned wood and coal.
When it was really cold out, Mama fixed me a cot to sleep on in the kitchen.
Dad banked up that old cast iron kitchen stove and pushed the cot in front of the open oven door.
How nice and cozy, lying there comfy and warm, listening to the fire crackling.
Oh yes, I’ve failed to mention in previous accounts, the chamber pot.
That “convenience,” a white metal pail with handle and lid,
was kept in the house for when it was too cold or too dark for little kids
(yeah, sometimes big folks, too) to make the trip to that two-holer.
Once a problem developed with our two-holer and our current hired girl.
We all noticed that she spent an inordinate amount of time in that convenience
which sometimes created a major inconvenience for others.
Dad decided to get to the bottom of the problem -- literally.
Our hard-working, clean living, usually quiet, dignified Dad revealed another side when the occasion called for it.
He pounded four nails into the toilet seat, one on either side of each hole.
Then he and the hired man rigged up a long wire to be hooked to a battery.
They split the other end of the wire, fed it into the outhouse, under the seat and fastened the split ends to the nails.
The devious plan was to wait for the hired girl’s next outhouse visit,
give her a reasonable amount of time, then attach the wire to the battery
for a shocking reminder that she’d been in there long enough.
And so they watched with great anticipation for her next visit.
She stepped in, closed the door and, after a reasonable length of time,
they attached the wire to the battery and waited -- and waited, and waited.
Nothing. After her usual lengthy stay, she calmly walked out the door.
What went wrong?
My theory is that she may have noticed the addition of nail heads
and insulated them with several catalog pages.
The battery could have been dead, but I’m sure Dad would have known that.
That one was on you, Dad.
Wash Day
After a while, we went modern. A noisy, smelly gasoline washing machine sat in the backroom.
Before that I remember Mama scrubbing clothes on the wash board in the round tin tub.
Next, before the gasoline machine, we got another washing machine. In good weather, it sat outside the back door.
It was made of wood. The sides were straight up and down but each end of the bottom was curved up to form a tub.
It was shaped like half a bass drum. On top were two lids hinged in the center of the machine.
There was an upright stick handle on one side that operated the gyrator inside the tub.
You filled the tub with hot soapy water and dirty laundry, closed the lid,
grabbed the stick handle and worked it back and forth which swished the dirty clothes around in the soapy water.
Mama decided that was a perfect job for me, so after she got the laundry loaded into the water
I would stand there and pump that handle back and forth until we felt the laundry was ready to rinse.
I don’t remember if we changed the water and rinsed the laundry in the machine, or if the rinsing was done in a separate tub.
I don’t know what happened to that washer, but wonder if the wood didn’t just get water logged beyond use.
Saturday was wash day. It started with a big copper boiler filled with water, on the kitchen stove.
Because the water there was hard, Mama added lye to the water in the boiler.
When the water was hot it went into the current laundry facility -- tin tub, wooden washer, or gasoline machine.
Mama hung the laundry on the clothesline which was fine in good weather.
But winters there were as cold as the summers were hot. In winter, laundry often came off the line frozen solid.
Once when Dad’s “union suit” (long handled underwear) was in the load of frozen laundry,
Mama knew Dad was on his way back to the house and she stood his union suit in the corner.
When Dad came in, there to greet him stood his Long Johns still frozen stiff.
On wash day we always had Navy beans and homemade cornbread. Um-mm-good!
Mama always made an extra-large batch of cornbread so we could have cush for next morning's breakfast.
(Cush: Crumbled cornbread moistened with milk, then fried.)
Mama was a good cook, but certain of her creations stand out in my memory in addition to the corn bread and beans.
Biscuits! I have never eaten biscuits that could match hers, not ones I or anyone else made, ate in restaurants,
or bought ready-to-bake.
And homemade bread! She mixed all the ingredients, kneaded them into a ball that went into a large pan to rise.
Then she’d knead it again and let it rise again. Later, wonderful loaves came from the oven.
But before she formed the dough into loaves, she’d cut off several small pieces and drop them
in a pan of hot melted lard for fried bread.
Eaten plain or dipped in sugar -- delicious! We were spoiled by her homemade bread.
In later years she took a vacation from baking it and began buying it ready made.
On rare occasions she’d break down and bake homemade bread.
We were so happy to again enjoy that wonderful bread that a batch disappeared too fast.
She joked that she was going to quit baking it altogether because of that.
Mama would make a game out of the morning housework. She’d say, “Let’s pretend company is coming at 10:00 o’clock
and we have to get the house cleaned up before they get here.”
Then we’d hustle to make the beds, dust, sweep, and put things in order,
every now and then checking out the window to see if the company was coming.
She’d say, “Oh, there they are at the railroad crossing” (about a quarter mile down the road).
Then it was “Oh, oh. They’re getting closer.” “They’re driving into the yard.”
Of course we always beat the pretend company. But that made the work fun.
Skinny Hair
My hair has always been very thin and fine. In later years a friend with the same kind of hair dubbed it “skinny hair.”
Skinny hair and Eastern Montana winds do not a good “do” make.
My hair also has slight waves. Mama would comb my hair with a wet comb and gently push those waves into place.
Out the door I’d go, only to have her painstaking efforts transformed into a small, messed up pile of straw.
My hair has always been very thin and fine. In later years a friend with the same kind of hair dubbed it “skinny hair.”
Skinny hair and Eastern Montana winds do not a good “do” make.
My hair also has slight waves. Mama would comb my hair with a wet comb and gently push those waves into place.
Out the door I’d go, only to have her painstaking efforts transformed into a small, messed up pile of straw.
Donald
Mama and Dad sometimes took me to stay with Grandpas and Grandmas south of the Missouri River.
That was always special. And I got a special surprise on one visit to the Goss homestead when I was 6-1/2.
Mama and Dad sometimes took me to stay with Grandpas and Grandmas south of the Missouri River.
That was always special. And I got a special surprise on one visit to the Goss homestead when I was 6-1/2.
Donald, 2 ½ months, July 1931
Someone came into the house after a trip to Sidney, and said,
“Well, Helen Mae, you have a new baby brother and his name is Donald Boyd.”
(Donald after Uncle Don Goss, Great Uncle Don Hulings, and Great Grandpa Adonijah Hulings;
and Boyd after a great grandmother, Ella Boyd Goss, who was married to Henry Alvis (Alva?) Goss,
father of our Grandpa Wm. O. Goss.)
Donald was born May 5, 1931, at Deaconess Hospital in Sidney.
“Well, Helen Mae, you have a new baby brother and his name is Donald Boyd.”
(Donald after Uncle Don Goss, Great Uncle Don Hulings, and Great Grandpa Adonijah Hulings;
and Boyd after a great grandmother, Ella Boyd Goss, who was married to Henry Alvis (Alva?) Goss,
father of our Grandpa Wm. O. Goss.)
Donald was born May 5, 1931, at Deaconess Hospital in Sidney.
Dad with Donald, 3 months
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On one of those visits with Grandma and Grandpa Goss,
Grandpa Goss walked with me to Grandpa and Grandma Turner’s for a short stay. When we got there we couldn’t find anyone. Then we heard a faint cry for help. The Turner grandparents had a well in a pump house not far from the back door. We found poor Grandma Turner IN the well. She had stepped on a weak floor board over the well and crashed through. She wasn’t clear in the water but was clinging to some rocks on the side. I don’t know how long she’d been in there. I don’t remember how she was rescued but Grandpa Turner and Earl probably got home soon to help Grandpa Goss get her out. Remember, in those days, no phones, let alone cell phones. Helen Mae and Grandma Goss by the International |
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There was one thing I particularly hated about that part of the country -- Grasshoppers!
I recall one particularly bad encounter with them.
I must have been visiting Uncle Wayne and Aunt Lulu in Sidney because on this day we were driving
in their car from Sidney to the Goss farm.
It was HOT, and cars then didn’t have air conditioning so, of course, all the windows were down.
Grasshoppers were zipping through that car in droves.
I was cowering in the back seat with my arms over my head and face trying desperately to stay out of the line of fire.
I just couldn’t stand it when one of those things hit me and, of course, lots of them did!
I was a wreck when we got to Grandpa’s and Grandma’s.
Aunt Lulu and Uncle Wayne were a point of interest themselves.
Uncle Wayne was a handsome gentleman with a moustache and a winning chuckle.
Aunt Lulu (always pronounced ‘Lu-luh’ -n) was Grandma Goss’ sister. She was an excellent seamstress.
She had a large goiter which she hid by making all her dresses with high collars.
She wore high top shoes, and those dresses were always floor length with long sleeves.
She was a very proper, dignified lady. I have a star pattern quilt which Grandma pieced and Aunt Lulu hand quilted.
Her stitches are perfection!
Mama once told of Aunt Lulu watching as Mama got dressed. Aunt Lulu said, “My dear, only one petticoat?!”
Once, Aunt Lulu, Uncle Wayne, and I were visiting Grandpa and Grandma Goss at the same time.
We were all at the dinner table when Uncle Don did something he was quite good at.
He’d recite three lines of an impromptu verse, but would have to wait a while to think up the last rhyming line.
It was always hilarious.
He came up with that last line when I had a mouth full of milk which squirted out all over Aunt Lulu and her food.
Hysterics followed and I finally had to leave the table to calm down.
I recall one particularly bad encounter with them.
I must have been visiting Uncle Wayne and Aunt Lulu in Sidney because on this day we were driving
in their car from Sidney to the Goss farm.
It was HOT, and cars then didn’t have air conditioning so, of course, all the windows were down.
Grasshoppers were zipping through that car in droves.
I was cowering in the back seat with my arms over my head and face trying desperately to stay out of the line of fire.
I just couldn’t stand it when one of those things hit me and, of course, lots of them did!
I was a wreck when we got to Grandpa’s and Grandma’s.
Aunt Lulu and Uncle Wayne were a point of interest themselves.
Uncle Wayne was a handsome gentleman with a moustache and a winning chuckle.
Aunt Lulu (always pronounced ‘Lu-luh’ -n) was Grandma Goss’ sister. She was an excellent seamstress.
She had a large goiter which she hid by making all her dresses with high collars.
She wore high top shoes, and those dresses were always floor length with long sleeves.
She was a very proper, dignified lady. I have a star pattern quilt which Grandma pieced and Aunt Lulu hand quilted.
Her stitches are perfection!
Mama once told of Aunt Lulu watching as Mama got dressed. Aunt Lulu said, “My dear, only one petticoat?!”
Once, Aunt Lulu, Uncle Wayne, and I were visiting Grandpa and Grandma Goss at the same time.
We were all at the dinner table when Uncle Don did something he was quite good at.
He’d recite three lines of an impromptu verse, but would have to wait a while to think up the last rhyming line.
It was always hilarious.
He came up with that last line when I had a mouth full of milk which squirted out all over Aunt Lulu and her food.
Hysterics followed and I finally had to leave the table to calm down.
Back to Donald
He was a dear little blue-eyed, round pink baby boy. Like his siblings, he began life bald.
Later, white hair covered his pink skull.
When he was awake, he was a very busy, independent little guy.
He was our little explorer and adventurer, which tended to get him into a few close calls. (See Appendix, “Donald”)
Helen Mae, the “Helper”
One of those close calls tho’ was at my hands.
Mama had a schedule for Donald and I felt keeping that schedule was of utmost importance.
Ten a.m. was his bath time. One day when Mama was busy in the barn yard, ten a.m. came and went.
I felt compelled to take action.
The hired girl came into the kitchen and found me standing at the kitchen table, on the table a dishpan full of bathwater,
and beside the dishpan, a pink baby about to get dunked in the dishpan.
She knew how slippery those tiny people are when they’re all wet, and that a six year old just may not be up to
hanging on to the slippery bundle.
She ran out the back door yelling, “Mrs. Turner, Helen Mae is giving the baby his bath!”
Mama came in and Donald survived, totally unconcerned that he may have come very close
to a painful landing on the kitchen floor.
He was a dear little blue-eyed, round pink baby boy. Like his siblings, he began life bald.
Later, white hair covered his pink skull.
When he was awake, he was a very busy, independent little guy.
He was our little explorer and adventurer, which tended to get him into a few close calls. (See Appendix, “Donald”)
Helen Mae, the “Helper”
One of those close calls tho’ was at my hands.
Mama had a schedule for Donald and I felt keeping that schedule was of utmost importance.
Ten a.m. was his bath time. One day when Mama was busy in the barn yard, ten a.m. came and went.
I felt compelled to take action.
The hired girl came into the kitchen and found me standing at the kitchen table, on the table a dishpan full of bathwater,
and beside the dishpan, a pink baby about to get dunked in the dishpan.
She knew how slippery those tiny people are when they’re all wet, and that a six year old just may not be up to
hanging on to the slippery bundle.
She ran out the back door yelling, “Mrs. Turner, Helen Mae is giving the baby his bath!”
Mama came in and Donald survived, totally unconcerned that he may have come very close
to a painful landing on the kitchen floor.
More High Jinks at the Kitchen Table
Ted and Ernie were playing Spin the Button at the kitchen table.
This involved a long string run through two holes of a large button, and then the ends of the string tied together.
You’d hold one end of the string loop in each hand, twist it, and then pull, which would spin the button in the center.
Guess that just wasn’t exciting enough for Ted and Ernie.
One of them twisted the string and, as it spun, lowered the button into the butter. Guess who cleaned that up?
It wasn't Mama and it wasn't me, but I thought it was pretty funny.
That trusty kitchen table entertained a wide variety of events.
One day a large eviscerated hog carcass was sprawled out there, waiting to be cut into meal size portions.
Ted and Ernie were playing Spin the Button at the kitchen table.
This involved a long string run through two holes of a large button, and then the ends of the string tied together.
You’d hold one end of the string loop in each hand, twist it, and then pull, which would spin the button in the center.
Guess that just wasn’t exciting enough for Ted and Ernie.
One of them twisted the string and, as it spun, lowered the button into the butter. Guess who cleaned that up?
It wasn't Mama and it wasn't me, but I thought it was pretty funny.
That trusty kitchen table entertained a wide variety of events.
One day a large eviscerated hog carcass was sprawled out there, waiting to be cut into meal size portions.
Old Man, Donald
Donald’s white hair stood out on that Indian reservation even more than my yellow hair.
A family of itinerant farm workers came through looking for employment.
They were Caucasian but all had dark, nearly black hair.
One little girl got out of the car, took one look at Donald’s white top, turned to her mother and asked,
“Mama, did you ever see a baby with grey hair”? Mama felt a little insulted.
She’d washed that toddler, including his white hair.
But she realized the little girl was categorizing, as in old people with grey or white hair.
Cutting Out the Middle Man
One day in the garden I heard a strange sort of slurping noise. Looked for the source and spotted pink toddler Donald
standing facing a staked tomato vine, holding in his hands a fat juicy tomato still attached to the vine,
as he sucked the life out of it.
After all, why pick that big fruit when leaving it on the vine would help him hold it up?
They say tomatoes are best fresh off the vine so why wouldn't they be even better on the vine?
Mama’s Socks
As a farm wife, Mama didn't have a lot of social activities. When such an opportunity came along, she welcomed it.
One of those was the monthly Ladies’ Aid meeting.
There was usually a presentation by a Home Demonstration Agent, and time for visiting and refreshments.
Mama was getting dressed to go but discovered a run in one of her last pair of stockings.
Remember rayon hose with seams down the back?
The wearer had to worry about the seams being straight and, of course, you’d never go out wearing hose with a run.
Well, that got the best of Mama. She didn't know I was watching when she flopped down on the bed and cried.
Well, I had to do something. But What? I went to the kitchen, got a cookie she baked, and offered it to her.
I don’t recall her reaction, but she probably appreciated it a little more than the gum incident.
Donald’s white hair stood out on that Indian reservation even more than my yellow hair.
A family of itinerant farm workers came through looking for employment.
They were Caucasian but all had dark, nearly black hair.
One little girl got out of the car, took one look at Donald’s white top, turned to her mother and asked,
“Mama, did you ever see a baby with grey hair”? Mama felt a little insulted.
She’d washed that toddler, including his white hair.
But she realized the little girl was categorizing, as in old people with grey or white hair.
Cutting Out the Middle Man
One day in the garden I heard a strange sort of slurping noise. Looked for the source and spotted pink toddler Donald
standing facing a staked tomato vine, holding in his hands a fat juicy tomato still attached to the vine,
as he sucked the life out of it.
After all, why pick that big fruit when leaving it on the vine would help him hold it up?
They say tomatoes are best fresh off the vine so why wouldn't they be even better on the vine?
Mama’s Socks
As a farm wife, Mama didn't have a lot of social activities. When such an opportunity came along, she welcomed it.
One of those was the monthly Ladies’ Aid meeting.
There was usually a presentation by a Home Demonstration Agent, and time for visiting and refreshments.
Mama was getting dressed to go but discovered a run in one of her last pair of stockings.
Remember rayon hose with seams down the back?
The wearer had to worry about the seams being straight and, of course, you’d never go out wearing hose with a run.
Well, that got the best of Mama. She didn't know I was watching when she flopped down on the bed and cried.
Well, I had to do something. But What? I went to the kitchen, got a cookie she baked, and offered it to her.
I don’t recall her reaction, but she probably appreciated it a little more than the gum incident.
Doris Rosemary
One Christmas Mama and Dad gave me a wonderful life-size baby doll.
I named her Doris Rosemary.
Christmas presented a hazard we don’t have today.
With no electricity, of course there were no strings of colored bulbs to drape on the tree.
Instead people used small candles in clip-on holders. Lighted candles on an evergreen tree!
The risk didn’t seem to be a big concern, but of course we only lit the tree when we were planning to be around it.
One Christmas Mama and Dad gave me a wonderful life-size baby doll.
I named her Doris Rosemary.
Christmas presented a hazard we don’t have today.
With no electricity, of course there were no strings of colored bulbs to drape on the tree.
Instead people used small candles in clip-on holders. Lighted candles on an evergreen tree!
The risk didn’t seem to be a big concern, but of course we only lit the tree when we were planning to be around it.
Doris Rosemary - Christmas 1929
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Doris Rosemary with Helen Mae, 5 1/2 years - 1930
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When Donald learned to sit up, he and Doris Rosemary were almost exactly the same size. He thought she was another real live baby. He would try to play with her and got so frustrated with her unresponsiveness that he finally gave her a big shove and knocked her over. He later learned that she was not a live baby but just a “goll” (his word for doll). Later still, he was responsible for her demise. (See Appendix “Donald”) Donald ‘sets up’ to punch out Doris Rosemary |
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Donald, in first 'engineer' suit, 2 years
David, 3 months 1933 |
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Donald’s Hat
Once I walked into the bedroom where Donald had been taking a nap in his crib.
He was awake and sitting up -- totally unaware of the soft, round, brown (smelly) “hat” perched on his head.
We never figured out how he did that.
Once I walked into the bedroom where Donald had been taking a nap in his crib.
He was awake and sitting up -- totally unaware of the soft, round, brown (smelly) “hat” perched on his head.
We never figured out how he did that.
A Minority Race?
This house was on an Indian Reservation (Sioux and, I think, Assiniboine). At one time Indian children were schooled separately but, by the time I started first grade, the schools were consolidated. I got a small taste of what it’s like to be part of a minority race. Although many Indian children became my friends, among all those black haired kids my tow head made me a target for some of the Indians. There were never any serious incidents. They mostly made fun of my name, calling me Helen Mae Pancake Turner, Helen Mae Turnover, and Turn Her Upside Down. How could I get back at them when they already had names like Bear Hill, Red Fox, Yellow Owl and my favorites, John Frozen Giant and twins Jimmie and Johnnie Walks-On-Top? Oh, and there was poor little James Youpee. Some of the kids with those names even made fun of other Indians’ names. Their Indian classmate, Paul Grant, became Paul Grunt.
One day, little Jimmie Youpee complained of a tummy ache. Our teacher asked him what he had for breakfast.
“Pancakes.” “How many?” “Thirteen.”
“Little White Girl”
We were friends with a family named Peterson who lived about two miles west of us.
They had a daughter, Deana Mae (say Deena) my age and in my grade in school.
We were best friends through the fifth grade when our family moved west.
One day, Mama agreed to let me walk by myself to visit Deana Mae.
Unthinkable today and probably not such a good idea then.
On the way, I passed an Indian home where a little girl was playing in the front yard.
When she saw me, she stopped what she was doing, stared at me, and then ran in the house calling:
“Mama! Mama! Little white girl! Little white girl!”
Portly “Mama” came out wearing a long Indian style dress, high leather moccasins, long black braids,
and a big smile, nodding her head “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”
Powwow
An Indian family named Coulter (Yes, just plain Coulter!) lived about a quarter mile east of our house.
Their two girls and I often played together.
And our family enjoyed many evenings sitting on our veranda witnessing the Coulters’ mini powwows.
They danced, drummed, and chanted around a big bonfire in their yard.
They lived in a log house with a dirt floor, packed so hard it shone like it had been waxed.
Out back was an extra bedroom -- a teepee.
They raised dogs like cattle -- for meat. For variety, they might serve snake.
This house was on an Indian Reservation (Sioux and, I think, Assiniboine). At one time Indian children were schooled separately but, by the time I started first grade, the schools were consolidated. I got a small taste of what it’s like to be part of a minority race. Although many Indian children became my friends, among all those black haired kids my tow head made me a target for some of the Indians. There were never any serious incidents. They mostly made fun of my name, calling me Helen Mae Pancake Turner, Helen Mae Turnover, and Turn Her Upside Down. How could I get back at them when they already had names like Bear Hill, Red Fox, Yellow Owl and my favorites, John Frozen Giant and twins Jimmie and Johnnie Walks-On-Top? Oh, and there was poor little James Youpee. Some of the kids with those names even made fun of other Indians’ names. Their Indian classmate, Paul Grant, became Paul Grunt.
One day, little Jimmie Youpee complained of a tummy ache. Our teacher asked him what he had for breakfast.
“Pancakes.” “How many?” “Thirteen.”
“Little White Girl”
We were friends with a family named Peterson who lived about two miles west of us.
They had a daughter, Deana Mae (say Deena) my age and in my grade in school.
We were best friends through the fifth grade when our family moved west.
One day, Mama agreed to let me walk by myself to visit Deana Mae.
Unthinkable today and probably not such a good idea then.
On the way, I passed an Indian home where a little girl was playing in the front yard.
When she saw me, she stopped what she was doing, stared at me, and then ran in the house calling:
“Mama! Mama! Little white girl! Little white girl!”
Portly “Mama” came out wearing a long Indian style dress, high leather moccasins, long black braids,
and a big smile, nodding her head “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”
Powwow
An Indian family named Coulter (Yes, just plain Coulter!) lived about a quarter mile east of our house.
Their two girls and I often played together.
And our family enjoyed many evenings sitting on our veranda witnessing the Coulters’ mini powwows.
They danced, drummed, and chanted around a big bonfire in their yard.
They lived in a log house with a dirt floor, packed so hard it shone like it had been waxed.
Out back was an extra bedroom -- a teepee.
They raised dogs like cattle -- for meat. For variety, they might serve snake.
Ridin’ the Rails
At our home by the tracks, some factors put all three of the Turner kids at risk.
Living by the tracks alone was one risk because we liked to play there.
We knew when to listen for approaching trains and get off the tracks.
We tested our balance by trying to walk on a single rail, and fell off a lot.
Years later I had my first passenger train ride.
I’ll never forget flushing the toilet and seeing it open to a clear view of the ground rushing past below.
And we played where all those trains and all those people traveled,
and all that waste from all those toilets drained on the ground where we played. Yuck! Well, we survived.
Then there were the hobos who bummed free rides on the freight trains.
If a train was passing slowly enough, they would often hop off and come to our door asking for food.
Sometimes they even offered to work for it.
They could have been considered a risk, but we never had any trouble from them.
Mama would fix something, a sandwich and coffee maybe, and serve it to the “visitor” sitting on the back steps.
Hobos would leave markers, usually a pile of rocks, to let other hobos know they got food at our house.
We always went up and removed the markers but the bums still bummed food from us.
Donald's 1st birthday, by the tracks, May 5, 1932
Among the chickens was another risk; a rooster with a shrinking personality.
He would cower and shy away from the other roosters who picked (pecked) on him.
One by one the other roosters ended up on the dinner table until that chicken-hearted bird was the only rooster left.
He sized up the situation, saw his opportunity to rule the roost, and became the barnyard bully.
He waged an ongoing battle against the hens, animals, and us!
He began chasing and picking fights with the hens. He would fly at us in squawking, pecking, clawing attacks.
I could fight him off, but two little boys didn't always fare so well and often needed rescuing from the rascally rooster.
Then there were the risks from Elsie (See Appendix “Elsie’s Story”) and Eunice.
We usually had a hired girl during harvest especially if there was a new baby around.
Eunice didn't have a lot of patience with little Donald. One day he came in the back door crying,
“Eunice pounded me with her shoe!” She had kicked the little guy.
Mama was more than a little upset!
There were times when I was convinced little brothers were invented to make life miserable for big sisters but,
truth be known, I really liked those little guys and was pretty protective of them.
However, I must admit to hitting each of them once apiece. When Donald was just a toddler,
I sat him on a high kitchen stool intending to put his shoes on.
Little Mr. Curiosity wanted to see what was going on. He would bend forward so he could see his feet.
Every time the top of him went forward, his feet disappeared back under the stool so I couldn't get at them.
Finally, I got so frustrated I slapped his little old pink cheek and, of course, he cried.
You know that thing about, “This hurts me more than it does you.”?
That memory hurts every time I think of it. (David’s turn came much later. See “Lakeside.”)
The rule was, big sister didn't dare hit little brothers, but I don’t remember anyone telling little brothers not to hit me.
I was the often the target of feisty Donald’s little fists which were like chunks of iron. Ow! Ow! Ow!
He would cower and shy away from the other roosters who picked (pecked) on him.
One by one the other roosters ended up on the dinner table until that chicken-hearted bird was the only rooster left.
He sized up the situation, saw his opportunity to rule the roost, and became the barnyard bully.
He waged an ongoing battle against the hens, animals, and us!
He began chasing and picking fights with the hens. He would fly at us in squawking, pecking, clawing attacks.
I could fight him off, but two little boys didn't always fare so well and often needed rescuing from the rascally rooster.
Then there were the risks from Elsie (See Appendix “Elsie’s Story”) and Eunice.
We usually had a hired girl during harvest especially if there was a new baby around.
Eunice didn't have a lot of patience with little Donald. One day he came in the back door crying,
“Eunice pounded me with her shoe!” She had kicked the little guy.
Mama was more than a little upset!
There were times when I was convinced little brothers were invented to make life miserable for big sisters but,
truth be known, I really liked those little guys and was pretty protective of them.
However, I must admit to hitting each of them once apiece. When Donald was just a toddler,
I sat him on a high kitchen stool intending to put his shoes on.
Little Mr. Curiosity wanted to see what was going on. He would bend forward so he could see his feet.
Every time the top of him went forward, his feet disappeared back under the stool so I couldn't get at them.
Finally, I got so frustrated I slapped his little old pink cheek and, of course, he cried.
You know that thing about, “This hurts me more than it does you.”?
That memory hurts every time I think of it. (David’s turn came much later. See “Lakeside.”)
The rule was, big sister didn't dare hit little brothers, but I don’t remember anyone telling little brothers not to hit me.
I was the often the target of feisty Donald’s little fists which were like chunks of iron. Ow! Ow! Ow!
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School
I would have been six on Dec 1, 1930. The folks were expecting to enroll me in the first grade that September at age five, since I would turn six so soon after. I was really looking forward to it. I could already read, and even made a stab at Mama’s high school Spanish book and her prayteeator. (That’s “typewriter” to the uninformed.) But school had to wait. They wouldn’t let me in ‘til the next year after my sixth birthday. I got that year back later. (See “Lakeside”)
I read a lot -- the newspaper, catalogs, and books. One book that stands out in memory was an Elsie Dinsmore book. (No connection to the Elsie referenced above.) Elsie was a young girl raised by a widowed father who, tho’ he loved her, was very strict with her. She played the piano. Elsie’s life and actions were guided by her unwavering faith in God. It made a profound impression on me. I’m guessing Mama and Dad or maybe Grandma Goss got it for me from the Sears catalog. Whoever got it, I am grateful. A series of Elsie Dinsmore books are still in print. Then, I thought there was only one. |
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The Little Thief
I got good grades, but when I was in the second grade I became a thief, a short lived career thanks to Mama.
(It must have before I read the Elsie Dinsmore book!)
I took coins from Mama’s purse. The hired girl had a shelf in the bedroom corner closet for her belongings.
Among them was a tiny tube of Tangee (?Pongee) lipstick and some rouge.
I was fascinated with them and helped myself. Then, at school I took a small pair of scissors from another girl’s desk.
I hid it all under linens in another shelf of that corner closet.
Time to change sheets.
Fresh ones were pulled from that shelf, dragging my stolen goods with them.
There lay my loot, all over the bedroom floor, exposed! Busted!
When disciplining us, Mama tended to be somewhat of a haranguer. Not this time. She didn’t spank me or yell at me.
She sat down, stood me facing her, and proceeded to tell me how special I was to her,
that she never would have dreamed I’d ever do anything so bad, and how very disappointed she was in me.
It broke my heart. You’d better believe I never stole anything again! (Seems there’s a lesson in effective disciplining here.)
Dad had a rather stoic demeanor and it tended to make his kids a little afraid of him.
If I asked Mama if I could do something and she told me to go ask Dad, I’d usually drop the matter.
Dad was able to break down and joke and horseplay, but he had trouble handling emotions.
One book I read told the story of a little girl who always kissed her parents good night.
I thought that sounded like a nice thing to do. So I kissed Mama and she liked that.
Dad was already in bed lying on his back. I climbed up and planted a kiss on his cheek.
He just laid there stiff as a board and didn’t say a word. No, he wasn’t asleep.
Another time when I was about four, Dad and I were having fun rolling around on the floor
when Dad suddenly flipped me over his knee and paddled me.
It was intended only as a play paddle and not hard enough to hurt a bug. But, to me, Dad spanked me, and I bawled!
Mama comforted me and explained that Dad was just playing and it wasn’t a real spanking.
But poor Dad. I can see him still, on his knees, stiff as a board, and speechless.
He simply didn’t know how to react. As young as I was, I knew he felt bad and very uncomfortable.
I got good grades, but when I was in the second grade I became a thief, a short lived career thanks to Mama.
(It must have before I read the Elsie Dinsmore book!)
I took coins from Mama’s purse. The hired girl had a shelf in the bedroom corner closet for her belongings.
Among them was a tiny tube of Tangee (?Pongee) lipstick and some rouge.
I was fascinated with them and helped myself. Then, at school I took a small pair of scissors from another girl’s desk.
I hid it all under linens in another shelf of that corner closet.
Time to change sheets.
Fresh ones were pulled from that shelf, dragging my stolen goods with them.
There lay my loot, all over the bedroom floor, exposed! Busted!
When disciplining us, Mama tended to be somewhat of a haranguer. Not this time. She didn’t spank me or yell at me.
She sat down, stood me facing her, and proceeded to tell me how special I was to her,
that she never would have dreamed I’d ever do anything so bad, and how very disappointed she was in me.
It broke my heart. You’d better believe I never stole anything again! (Seems there’s a lesson in effective disciplining here.)
Dad had a rather stoic demeanor and it tended to make his kids a little afraid of him.
If I asked Mama if I could do something and she told me to go ask Dad, I’d usually drop the matter.
Dad was able to break down and joke and horseplay, but he had trouble handling emotions.
One book I read told the story of a little girl who always kissed her parents good night.
I thought that sounded like a nice thing to do. So I kissed Mama and she liked that.
Dad was already in bed lying on his back. I climbed up and planted a kiss on his cheek.
He just laid there stiff as a board and didn’t say a word. No, he wasn’t asleep.
Another time when I was about four, Dad and I were having fun rolling around on the floor
when Dad suddenly flipped me over his knee and paddled me.
It was intended only as a play paddle and not hard enough to hurt a bug. But, to me, Dad spanked me, and I bawled!
Mama comforted me and explained that Dad was just playing and it wasn’t a real spanking.
But poor Dad. I can see him still, on his knees, stiff as a board, and speechless.
He simply didn’t know how to react. As young as I was, I knew he felt bad and very uncomfortable.
Singer
Mama had a trusty Singer treadle sewing machine that served us all well.
She made most of my dresses. Some of the prettiest were those she cut from her old dresses.
My favorite was one she made from a silky blue print with a big collar edged with a band of tiny pleats.
She transformed that collar, complete with tiny pleats, into a cape collar for my dress.
I always felt so glamorous when I wore it.
Once shortly before Christmas she was working on a garment she said was for her.
But she held it up to me to check something.
I thought it strange that it was closer to my size than hers but Mama said it was for her, so it must be.
Maybe it was just a blouse. Well, Christmas Day I had a new dress. Guess she didn't want it after all.
She made most of my dresses. Some of the prettiest were those she cut from her old dresses.
My favorite was one she made from a silky blue print with a big collar edged with a band of tiny pleats.
She transformed that collar, complete with tiny pleats, into a cape collar for my dress.
I always felt so glamorous when I wore it.
Once shortly before Christmas she was working on a garment she said was for her.
But she held it up to me to check something.
I thought it strange that it was closer to my size than hers but Mama said it was for her, so it must be.
Maybe it was just a blouse. Well, Christmas Day I had a new dress. Guess she didn't want it after all.
Donald re-engineers the Singer
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Pet Rocks
With the onset of the Great Depression, it was not uncommon for educated, professional men to look for farm work
because there was no employment in the fields they were trained for.
One of these, Jack Kehoe, ended up working at our place. He was a college graduate and a geologist,
a delightful young man who became more of a family friend than just a hired hand.
He saw that I was in to collecting “pretty rocks.” He came with us on trip south of the river,
and we stopped at the Montana badlands.
This young geologist sat down with me at the edge of this awesome formation,
pointed out strata, and explained other facts about the badlands.
I don’t remember much of the details, but they no doubt included how badlands were formed
where glaciers passed and failed to deposit layers of quality soil, making it difficult for plant growth,
although today, badlands do display a sparse growth of juniper and pine.
Cattle rustlers and bandits made the badlands their hideouts.
Native Americans refused to go there because badlands were “home of the bad spirits.”
Later, Jack returned to his southern home, South Carolina, I believe.
From there he sent me a sizable chunk of amethyst.
Believe me, it was the prettiest in my collection of pretty rocks. I treasured it for years.
Unfortunately, it disappeared after a rummage sale.
I decided to sell most of the pretty rock collection, and for $2.00 a customer snapped them up.
That amethyst must have been in that box. I didn’t see it, but the man who bought the collection probably did.
I still have some of that rock collection; a chunk of shiny black obsidian (volcanic glass), another hunk of lava;
lead, zinc, and silver ore from the mines in Idaho, some sandstone, a large petrified snail, agates and petrified wood,
and a plain old big rock from Dad’s tree farm in Montana (see "Dad's Tree Farm").
That rock, the obsidian and lava are in my yard along with some other pieces.
Sometimes I ask visitors if they knew Mt. St. Helens blew again.
I point to the lava and obsidian and tell them there’s the proof.
Those pieces and the petrified wood and agates are actually from eastern Montana which points to the very real possibility
that prairie and rolling-hill country once had an active volcano and was mountainous and forested.
As for the rock from Dad’s tree farm, niece Carole visited there with me one year, picked up that rock,
dumped it in my car trunk and said, “Here, you need a rock from Grampa Art’s farm.”
With the onset of the Great Depression, it was not uncommon for educated, professional men to look for farm work
because there was no employment in the fields they were trained for.
One of these, Jack Kehoe, ended up working at our place. He was a college graduate and a geologist,
a delightful young man who became more of a family friend than just a hired hand.
He saw that I was in to collecting “pretty rocks.” He came with us on trip south of the river,
and we stopped at the Montana badlands.
This young geologist sat down with me at the edge of this awesome formation,
pointed out strata, and explained other facts about the badlands.
I don’t remember much of the details, but they no doubt included how badlands were formed
where glaciers passed and failed to deposit layers of quality soil, making it difficult for plant growth,
although today, badlands do display a sparse growth of juniper and pine.
Cattle rustlers and bandits made the badlands their hideouts.
Native Americans refused to go there because badlands were “home of the bad spirits.”
Later, Jack returned to his southern home, South Carolina, I believe.
From there he sent me a sizable chunk of amethyst.
Believe me, it was the prettiest in my collection of pretty rocks. I treasured it for years.
Unfortunately, it disappeared after a rummage sale.
I decided to sell most of the pretty rock collection, and for $2.00 a customer snapped them up.
That amethyst must have been in that box. I didn’t see it, but the man who bought the collection probably did.
I still have some of that rock collection; a chunk of shiny black obsidian (volcanic glass), another hunk of lava;
lead, zinc, and silver ore from the mines in Idaho, some sandstone, a large petrified snail, agates and petrified wood,
and a plain old big rock from Dad’s tree farm in Montana (see "Dad's Tree Farm").
That rock, the obsidian and lava are in my yard along with some other pieces.
Sometimes I ask visitors if they knew Mt. St. Helens blew again.
I point to the lava and obsidian and tell them there’s the proof.
Those pieces and the petrified wood and agates are actually from eastern Montana which points to the very real possibility
that prairie and rolling-hill country once had an active volcano and was mountainous and forested.
As for the rock from Dad’s tree farm, niece Carole visited there with me one year, picked up that rock,
dumped it in my car trunk and said, “Here, you need a rock from Grampa Art’s farm.”
Dancing
Back up here a little to those drapes that hung between the bedroom and living room.
Growing up, I often entertained dancing fantasies where I imagined performing graceful, next to impossible maneuvers,
floating so I sometimes never touched the ground.
One night after Mama put me to bed, through those drapes I could hear music from the phonograph in the living room.
Mama and Dad were dancing. The music got the best of me emotionally.
I climbed out of bed and stuck my head between those drapes, tears running down my cheeks.
When they asked what was wrong, I sobbed, “I want to dance too.”
Well they remedied that. They scooped me up and I wound up dancing right along with them. Happy memory.
Moving ahead
I began violin lessons in sixth grade in Burke, Idaho.
By the time I was in high school and we lived in Gem, I could play waltzes, la Varsouvienne,
Turkey in the Straw, Irish Washer Woman, Sailor’s Hornpipe, and other old time country and folk tunes.
I’d play them and Mama and Dad would dance to them. Happy memories continued.
Back up here a little to those drapes that hung between the bedroom and living room.
Growing up, I often entertained dancing fantasies where I imagined performing graceful, next to impossible maneuvers,
floating so I sometimes never touched the ground.
One night after Mama put me to bed, through those drapes I could hear music from the phonograph in the living room.
Mama and Dad were dancing. The music got the best of me emotionally.
I climbed out of bed and stuck my head between those drapes, tears running down my cheeks.
When they asked what was wrong, I sobbed, “I want to dance too.”
Well they remedied that. They scooped me up and I wound up dancing right along with them. Happy memory.
Moving ahead
I began violin lessons in sixth grade in Burke, Idaho.
By the time I was in high school and we lived in Gem, I could play waltzes, la Varsouvienne,
Turkey in the Straw, Irish Washer Woman, Sailor’s Hornpipe, and other old time country and folk tunes.
I’d play them and Mama and Dad would dance to them. Happy memories continued.
Unsolved Mystery
Some days, far to the west of our house by the RR tracks, we could see a small house sitting on the horizon.
It had a roof that rose to a point in the center.
Resting atop it was an identical upside down house with the point of its roof
resting on the point of the right-side-up house’s roof.
A mirage. But we suspected the right-side-up house was real. Whenever we were out driving in that direction we’d try our best to find that little house. Never did.
Years after we left there, someone (Ernie, I think) took a picture of that Little House by the Railroad Tracks
and gave it to Mama. The roof was caved in. Later, she threw the picture in the trash.
She said it just made her feel bad to see our little home in such disrepair.
I fished it out of the trash and kept it.
To me, that little house was two baby brothers, starting grade school, dancing with Mama and Dad, Dad on the tractor,
Mama on the combine, Dad removing the bottom steps to the ladder that ran up the windmill so toddler Donald
couldn’t climb up there again.
It was Navy beans and cornbread on wash day, and the boiler of lye water on the crackling kitchen stove,
crisp apples from the box in the cellar.
The little house is gone now. There’s not even a hole were the cellar was.
But, I wonder if Mama’s engagement ring is buried there.
When we first moved to that house, she took off the ring to protect it while working (maybe with that laundry lye water?).
I decided it would be fun to play with her ring. I lost it, and it was never found.
Some days, far to the west of our house by the RR tracks, we could see a small house sitting on the horizon.
It had a roof that rose to a point in the center.
Resting atop it was an identical upside down house with the point of its roof
resting on the point of the right-side-up house’s roof.
A mirage. But we suspected the right-side-up house was real. Whenever we were out driving in that direction we’d try our best to find that little house. Never did.
Years after we left there, someone (Ernie, I think) took a picture of that Little House by the Railroad Tracks
and gave it to Mama. The roof was caved in. Later, she threw the picture in the trash.
She said it just made her feel bad to see our little home in such disrepair.
I fished it out of the trash and kept it.
To me, that little house was two baby brothers, starting grade school, dancing with Mama and Dad, Dad on the tractor,
Mama on the combine, Dad removing the bottom steps to the ladder that ran up the windmill so toddler Donald
couldn’t climb up there again.
It was Navy beans and cornbread on wash day, and the boiler of lye water on the crackling kitchen stove,
crisp apples from the box in the cellar.
The little house is gone now. There’s not even a hole were the cellar was.
But, I wonder if Mama’s engagement ring is buried there.
When we first moved to that house, she took off the ring to protect it while working (maybe with that laundry lye water?).
I decided it would be fun to play with her ring. I lost it, and it was never found.